Fairy Tales and Hokum
by Belphegor
Summary: Chapter 16 up! 1937: The O'Connells are required by the English Government to bring the Diamond taken from Ahm Shere from Cairo to London. Things get interesting when Jonathan bumps by chance into an old friend of his from Oxford, Tom Ferguson...
1. Overture

**Author's Notes:**Ok, first and foremost, to those who fear I've abandoned my _Harry Potter_ series: I haven't. I just put a break to it, because despite the fact that I've written 27 pages in French, I don't know how to wrap up this chapter and I've just put it on hold for a while. Which doesn't means I won't return on it – quite the contrary. Only I don't think (unless a good plot bunny pops up) that I'll be writing long, many-chaptered series after this one. Snippets, one-shots I'll surely write, but we'll see.

_(Et en _**français**_, parce qu'il y a bien plus de lecteurs français de HP qui me posent la question: pour ceux qui me demandent si j'ai abandonné Les Chroniques : je n'ai pas abandonné les Chroniques :o) J'ai simplement fait un break, parce bien qu'ayant écrit 27 pages du chapitre 12, je ne sais pas trop comment le terminer et annoncer le 13ème, et je l'ai mis en stand-by en attendant. Ce qui ne veut pas dire que je n'y retournerai pas – au contraire ! ! Seulement, je ne crois pas que j'écrirai une autre histoire longue avec beaucoup de chapitres après avoir fini celle-là (à moins d'avoir une idée géniale et qu'elle me colle aux basques :o) J'écrirai sûrement des petits truc comme _Two of a Kind_, enfin, on verra._

For the moment, I present you with what I've been writing for the past year, since August 2003: a many-chaptered Mummy story, my very first, so I hope you'll write long, detailed reviews to tell me what's wrong and what's not, what you've liked and what you didn't.

So, after all this blabber, on to the story. Hope you'll like. Sincerely.

Disclaimer:_Stephen Sommers owns and developed the characters of _The Mummy_, so feel free to blame him for my obsession :o) The characters, places, certain situations are his creation. Some faces and things I invented, some I twisted – but every character here is fictitious, and doesn't have anything to do with any person, living, dead, or… in-between. Who knows ;o)_

_Dedicated to Cat :o) Hi, mate!_

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**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**"I knew this was gonna be a lousy day."**

(Rick O'Connell, _The Mummy_ original draft – fitting quote :o)

_**Chapter 1: Overture**_

_Cairo, Egypt, 1937_

The first thing that hit the tourist's eye upon seeing Cairo for the first time was that the whole city seemed to be a source of blinding white light. The little white houses, the blazing sky, the glittering sun – even the dust flying around helped complete the effect.

Of course, as soon as your eyes – and mind – adjusted, you could see and feel the dust that settled on absolutely everything, including your ears and nose, the layers of grime, the heaps of donkey and mule droppings in the streets … and if you were very careful, you could catch the hand of the passing pickpocket sneaking for your wallet, as it was in any metropolis big and noisy enough for passers-by to be distracted.

Not that this particular thought worried one particular Englishman who was currently sauntering across the streets of Cairo. As a fairly skilled pickpocket himself, Jonathan Carnahan didn't need to eye every corner warily – all he needed to do was to watch his own self and make sure that no belongings of his landed in anyone's pocket. And not forgetting to keep an eye out for something that might be interesting, as well.

Jonathan turned round a corner, whistling to himself the tune of some jazz song he'd heard. Despite his cheerful demeanour, he was feeling slightly miffed, having gone out in the hopes of finding something for Evy's birthday and coming home empty-handed. Lucky thing that he still had a couple of days to go. After years of searching frantically for a gift at the very last moment, he was determined to get his hands on something she might like – and preferably something that didn't involve puzzle boxes, big black books, and three-thousand-years-old mummies rising from the dead. That was over. He, for one, had had his share of insane stuff like that.

Thinking of their last trip to Egypt all together wiped the smile off his face. It had been two years, but how could he ever forget that horrible, ice-cold feeling that had left him completely numb, as he sat down next to the dead body of his sister, trying to comfort his nephew and failing so thoroughly? He had _never_ felt so miserable in all his life, and that included some hard-to-forget occurrences.

_There it goes again_. Jonathan shook his head, and quickened his pace. Such memories, which he normally would never have allowed to return, were growing more and more frequent, and that was something that he didn't like at all. He didn't really mind returning to Egypt, as he'd had quite a few fond memories of the place before the whole nasty mummy business, but the reason behind the trip bothered him a little.

Two years ago, the second before they left the oasis of Ahm Shere sinking into the ground, Jonathan had taken as a souvenir – and compensation for all the troubles – the enormous diamond resting atop the pyramid. He'd felt very proud of himself for that, and it had come to him as a nasty bit of shock when Evy had told him there was absolutely _no way_ he would take it to London. Yet, after much arguing on his part, and even more talking and coaxing on his sister's, he had finally admitted, despondently, that she might be right after all.

The tidy amount of money the Cairo Egyptian Museum of Antiquities had offered had not quite consoled him, not to mention that he had been forced to give a substantial quarter to Izzy, who fortunately never knew the real value of the gem. Even Evy reminding him that the diamond couldn't be safer than in this hidden room, under the constant, hawk-like watch of the Medjai curator, had not been quite enough. The diamond was so beautiful – gleaming white, inlaid with elaborated gold and pearls – and big – the weight of it had nearly pulled Jonathan down from the dirigible; parting with it had not been easy.

And now, just a few months ago, the British Government had contacted Evy and Rick through the curator of the British Museum where Evy worked as chief librarian; they had decided that the diamond was no longer safe in Egypt, with the Italian army having finished invading Ethiopia not so long ago and all the ominous tidings from Germany, Italy and Spain – the O'Connells had been kindly asked to return to Egypt, and accompany the diamond on its way to England. Which had meant, in a more concrete way of putting it, that they were mandatory volunteers. The look on Rick's face when he had explained it to his brother-in-law had been a murderous one – partly because he hated the idea of being ordered about, but the main reason was that Evy was more than enthusiastic about it.

Alex had told his uncle afterwards of the row they'd had one night, thinking he was sound asleep. Poor kid had never heard his parents truly fight in the space of ten years, and that had obviously disturbed him. To tell the truth, it had disturbed Jonathan himself, who saw Evy and Rick as _the_ perfect couple in so many ways it was disgusting. Rick didn't want for all the world to go back to Egypt, but there was no way in hell he'd let his wife go there alone.

"And he said that Mum was 'a magnet for trouble', that each time they went to that 'damn place someone died', and after that Mum shouted something rude –"

"Rude? Evy? Are we speaking of my baby sister there?" Uncle and nephew were sitting on the carpet on the floor of the latter's bedroom, back against the bed. Jonathan liked it when he went over to 'baby-sit' Alex – Evy had finally come to trust him when she and Rick had to go out for an exhibition or whatever, and they always had a good time together. This evening, though, Alex had sat silently, looking crestfallen. When Jonathan had eventually managed to get him to talk, it was rather late in the night, and Alex ought to have been put to bed long ago. But neither of them were very eager about it just then.

His uncle's attempt at humour got a reluctant smile from Alex; he repeated what Evy had said to Jonathan, who let out a low whistle. "Indeed. Even your dad would call it rude, I guess."

Alex gave another slight smile, and snuggled beside his uncle. A tad uncomfortable at first with this rather unusual display of emotion, Jonathan put an arm around his nephew's shoulder and pulled him closer. "Hey. Want a piece of advice from your old uncle?" Alex nodded, not saying anything. "Don't worry too much. I've seen your parents together for twelve years, and if there's only one thing I'm sure of in this world – they are so in love it's sickening. It's always been this way, and I'm sure it'll always be this way." Alex raised his eyes. Jonathan looked down back at him, winking, "Get used to it, partner. We're doomed."

A moment's silence passed, more comfortable and relaxed than it had been a few minutes earlier. Then Alex raised his blond head to ask, "D'you think we'll go back to Egypt, then?"

"I don't know." Jonathan shifted slightly on the floor. "I wouldn't say no to a trip there – the country's a fine one. And after all, we're talking about _my_ diamond here, dammit." Alex snorted, and Jonathan chose to ignore it. "Seriously, I like the place. I spent most of my time as a kid there."

"Well, I'd _love_ to go." The passion in his nephew's voice echoed his mum's whenever she spoke of Egypt, and it wasn't lost on Jonathan.

"You sure? I would've thought that you would hate it, you know. You didn't have what I'd call a good time last time you went there."

"You only say that because you were scared to death most of the time."

"It's not true."

"Like hell it isn't!"

Jonathan managed to give Alex what he thought was a stern look. The boy just grinned.

"And you kiss your mother with that mouth."

"Bet Dad hasn't taught me half of what he knows."

This time, they both chuckled. Then Alex scrambled out of his uncle's arms and looked at him in the eye, "Why won't he go back to Egypt?"

"Well, it's – it's complicated." _Like hell it is_. "I guess he doesn't want to – lose you or your mum again." Jonathan swallowed. "And to tell you the truth – I have to agree with him on that one."

"But it's only for the diamond!" Alex exclaimed. "No Book of the Dead, no mummies, no ancient curses. Only a diamond to take to England."

Jonathan grinned. "The problem is, each time your mum began her sentence by 'It's _only_ a' whatever, the world went upside down and your mum and dad had to save it. Mostly because they doomed it in the first place. If my memory serves me right, it was firstly the Book of the Dead, then the chest with that bloody Bracelet of Anubis." Jonathan shook his head. "Seems you take more after Evy than I'd thought." He winked at Alex to make him know he was only being half serious; but Alex went on.

"Okay, I understand that he doesn't want to lose me or –"

"Let me clear that up, Alex," Jonathan interrupted, his voice low and serious for once. "It's not that he 'doesn't want' to. You know him, there's not many things on earth he's afraid of – but he's scared out of his wits at the mere thought of losing one of you two. And that's saying something, because your dad's one of the bravest blokes I've ever known."

Alex was silent for a moment, pondering his uncle's words. Then his jaw clenched, and he looked away. "Uncle Jon?"

"Yes?"

"At Ahm Shere, I was – _I_ was scared to death when – when Mum …"

Jonathan felt a knot tighten in his chest; he shifted closer to his nephew and put an arm around him again. "I know. I was, too."

A week later, after seven whole days of deliberation, Rick and Evy accepted the Government's mission. And after another fourteen days of heated debates, Alex was allowed to go with his parents to Egypt, seemingly thanks to the high marks he had received in his end-of-year exams for his last year at school. But Jonathan suspected that this decision had a lot to do with his nephew's ability to wear out any guardian when he didn't want to be left out. Thankfully the boy had never tried his infamous tricks on him, a fact that made Evy wonder endlessly.

In the end, Evy and Rick officially broke the news about the trip to Jonathan; not wanting them to realise that he had known for almost a month, he feigned to be pleasantly surprised, and asked if they minded him going along for the ride. Evy said yes almost immediately, but Rick muttered something about the return of the whole O'Connell-Carnahan family to Egypt bringing down plagues and destruction upon the world.

So, after a surprisingly uneventful flight from London to Cairo, and an equally calm trip to their 'old haunt', as Jonathan liked to put it, they were settling down peacefully. The lack of major events so far had made Rick more relaxed, even if he still looked as if danger was about to bear down upon his family any time. But the fact remained that they were to stay in Egypt until the London and Cairo Museums agreed on several points which still needed to be discussed. Ah, the joys of bureaucracy.

Jonathan was jerked out of his train of thought when he finally felt the afternoon sun's fantastic heat on his brown-haired head, and wished he had taken Evy's advice to put on a hat. They had arrived the day before, and while Evy discussed the diamond case with the curator of the Museum of Antiquities, and Rick stayed with Alex inside the house, Jonathan had sneaked out to take a stroll, and try to find a fitting birthday present. Evy was a tricky one when it came to gifts – she didn't seem to like flowers, trinkets or pretty dresses like any other normal woman; but she was mad about anything that reminded her of Egypt. And it had been that way ever since she was old enough to know what she wanted, which had come very early indeed.

Maybe the best thing was to ask O'Connell what he would be giving her, and either get ideas or just contribute to the purchase, as he had done before. But that idea bothered him. After all, as his one and only sister, she _did_ deserve something special.

Quite lost in his thoughts this time, he barely registered that he was walking past the Museum before somebody knocked into him, hard enough for both of them to crumple, breathless, on the ground. Completely winded, it took Jonathan thirty seconds to come round and, instinctively, check his pockets for something missing.

"Gee, I'm sorry I bumped into you, man, din' mean to," came the voice of the attacker. Jonathan's eyes widened at the sound of this voice and he looked at its owner.

"Ferguson? Is that you? Tommy Ferguson?"

The fellow shook his sandy head, still looking a bit dazed; then his own eyes, round and brown, went even rounder as he stared at Jonathan, "Carnahan! What the hell are you doin' 'ere?"

"Glad to see you too, old chap," laughed Jonathan, standing up and dusting himself off before offering a hand at the man on the ground, who accepted it gladly.

He hadn't seen Thomas Ferguson since they had got out of Oxford, and that was ages ago. They'd made quite a pair, the two of them – the scrawny, foppish Southerner with the quiet grin and the sticky fingers, and the broad-shouldered, round-faced Scouse with the laughing eyes and the deceptively innocent face. They weren't the best of friends properly speaking, but they'd helped each other out of many a tight spot. They were 'mates', as Tommy liked to say.

As soon as Tommy had got on his feet, he was wringing Jonathan's hand with all the energy he'd been famous for as a boy, "Sorry, Jon, mate, I was a bit stunned –" After all these years, he still retained some of that accent, too! "– 'S'not everyday you bump into a pal from Oxford in the middle of Cairo! How'd you get here, for starters?"

"Well, I followed my sister," Jonathan replied, grinning. In fifteen years or so, he had not realised that he had actually missed this accent. "She's come to help the curator of the Museum of Antiquities – she's famous now, you know."

"Oh yeah? That's fantastic. I haven't forgotten how you'd talk about her, y'know. On and on and on. I'm curious to see what she looks like."

Jonathan stole a glance at the entrance steps of the Museum, and turned to Tommy with a smirk, "Really? Well, if you really want to, I suppose I could …"

His sister had just appeared on the steps, accompanied by the curator, an elderly man with greying hair and whiskers. Tommy followed Jonathan's gaze and looked at them, goggling at Evy in particular.

"Jonny – are my eyes mistaken, or is this gorgeous lass Dr Evelyn O'Connell? I've read about her, she's famous in my line of work … According to what I've read, she was one of the first three people to make it out of the City of the Dead alive –"

Jonathan's grin widened as he nodded, "Yes, that'd be her." Tommy rambled on as they walked closer to the steps, "That's bloody amazing! I thought she'd look, you know, like in the pictures in the paper, the bookish type with glasses – your typical Southerner spinster", he added with a wink. They waited for the curator to bid her goodbye, and Jonathan, greatly enjoying the situation, crept up on his sister to kiss her on the cheek.

"Hey there, old mum – how's your day been?"

Evy started, then her expression shifted from slightly ruffled to a smile as her brother began to laugh. She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Jonathan, the things that amuse you …"

"You're just miffed I startled you. C'mon, I'd like you to meet someone – an admirer," he added with a grin to Tommy, who stood there, his eyes wide. "Thomas Ferguson, an old school friend of mine. Tommy – Evelyn Carnahan O'Connell, my famous baby sister."

Evy held out her hand, which Tommy grabbed and shook heartily. "So you're the ol' rascal's sister? No wonder he spoke about you – though you don't quite fit the description now …"

"What exactly did you tell your 'school friends' about me?" asked Evy, warning in her voice, though the twinkle in her eye did not quite disappear. Nevertheless, Jonathan preferred to ignore her question, earning a hard nudge in the ribs from his sister.

"So, what did you say your 'line of work' was?" he asked Tommy.

"Well – don' laugh. I work at the British Consulate in Cairo, specialising in antique stuff. Oh, I'm sorry, Dr O'Connell," he stammered with a glance at Evy who had an eyebrow raised, "I mean I'm one of the chief operators of the British Antique Research Department."

"I've heard of you!" exclaimed Evy. "At least of that Research Department. They're gradually cutting off public funds – encouraging individual financing – that won't do any good for scientific research. Such a stupid decision will –"

"So you lot are the ones she kept fuming about for half a year!" Jonathan snorted. The infamous Ferguson rotten luck had just struck again.

Tommy looked dejected. Evy must have seen this, because she bit her lip and said, in softer tones, "Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you. But as my brother said, I've been – rather upset over this attitude. I may work at the British Museum, but I care about the results of research, not the money behind it."

"I'll – I'll tell my superiors about it," said Tommy, still looking unsure. "See what I can do. Surely that won't be much, but … Well. I'll have tried."

"That's nice," Evy said cheerfully, taking Jonathan's arm and beginning to walk. "Look, the two of you – I've had something of a rough day, so I'll go home, if you don't mind. You can –"

"Brilliant idea!" said Jonathan, flashing a grin at his sister. "I thought of going to the Sultan's Kasbah, but you might find it a tad – let's say – dingy, my good friend."

"Worse than the Turf?" Seeing Evy's puzzled look, Tommy explained, "Sorry, private joke. I mean the Turf Tavern, that's where I saw him for the first time. Me family didn't 'ave much money, you know, so I used to work there to pay for my studies. Very nice pub."

"I'm sure you did indeed see a lot of my brother there," Evy slipped in slyly. Unruffled, Jonathan threw a mock glare at her.

"To think you are almost my only family. What a shame." Then, as Tommy looked uncertain, "Carry on, Tom."

"All right. So I was one of the only students who needed a job, and there were some others who thought that it was – how'd they put it? – a 'disgrace' to our university."

"Preposterous," said Evy sternly. "As if money could take you further than talent."

Jonathan refrained from the cynic comment that crossed his mind at Evy's innocence. Sometimes it just baffled him.

"Right," said Tommy uncertainly, glancing at Jonathan. "So, one day, a little bunch of lads come in, and Jon here was sometimes hanging with 'em at the time –"

Evy glared at Jonathan in advance, and he threw his hands in the air, "Don't look at me like that! I haven't done anything!" Evy's gaze softened, and Jonathan finished, "…Yet." That earned him a playful slap on the arm, and a laugh from Tommy, who went on, "Anyway, one of the guys orders somethin' or other, and starts to poke fun at me. Well, I was used to it, so I let them be. Then they continued, and I finally noticed that skinny lad in the corner who was makin' fun at them _for making fun at me_. Didn' quite understand what the hell was going on – oh, sorry, Dr O'Connell – what was happening."

Evy smiled. "You'll have to watch your mouth if you're to speak in front of my son, but otherwise it's fine. And please, call me Evelyn."

Tommy beamed. "Right, uh, Evelyn. So, uh –"

"What he didn't know at that point," interrupted Jonathan, "was that I had my eye on that fellow – what's his name – Farbow. He owed me quite a bit of money, but wouldn't repay me. So I was looking for a way to get him back for it."

"And get his wallet in the process, of course."

"Evy, he owed me seventy pounds. And he was not what I'd call a 'decent bloke' – nasty, disdainful bugger he was, and his little friends with him. Always a dirty word about the Scouse who worked at the Turf Tavern, just because he didn't belong to his little snobby world. I did the community a favour, really."

"Don't push it, Jonathan," warned Evy. Tommy carried on.

"Well, I was glad there was at least one person who didn't think like Edwin Farbow – nice change. Then Farbow said something – I don't remember what it was about, I jus' remember it really angered me, _really_. An' it's not a pretty sight when I'm _really_ angry at someone."

Jonathan remembered, but thought it wise to keep his mouth shut.

"An' – an' I just lost it, y'know? I dropped his tea over his 'ead –"

"I say, that one was pretty funny," Jonathan said, smiling widely at the memory. But the strangled yelp that had followed had definitely been one of the best parts.

"So they all leaped for me, obviously – began to punch me, the six or seven of them – hey, I still managed to get back at them!" Tommy added quickly, as if defending his honour. Evy hid a smile, and it occurred to Jonathan that she was probably thinking about Rick. "But I'm not a fool. I know a losing fight when I'm in one."

"Don't tell me. Jonathan bravely threw himself into the fight to take on as many attackers as possible." There was mischievous laughter in Evy's voice, and her eyes were twinkling. If any other than her had quipped that way about him, Jonathan would probably have been offended, or hurt. But they knew each other enough not to cross the line.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "Well, that wasn't quite Jon's style – I don' know, might've changed in fifteen years. But he did, then. One moment I was squashed under six or seven guys, the nex' I found out we were two on the floor."

Evy began to laugh, "Why, Jonathan? _My_ Jonathan, in a fight, for someone he barely knew?"

At that Jonathan cleared his throat, a mite embarrassed, "I told you, I was looking for Farbow's wallet. That was the perfect diversion – you should've seen Farbow looking in every corner for his lost wallet afterwards. It was three months before he gave up." _And it's lucky you didn't see _me_ then. I was a bloody mess_. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

"Nothing." Evy smiled. "You never told me that."

"Should I have?"

"I don't know, it's – it was nice of you to do that, even for the wrong reasons. I'm proud of you."

Jonathan felt an unexpected lump rise in his throat. Not a very big one, but enough to keep him from talking for a few seconds. It was always like this whenever she said something really nice to him. He fell for it each and every time.

"We're home," announced Evy after a little while, stopping in front of a door.

"Nice house," commented Tommy, taking in the sand-coloured neat front and the curtains at the windows.

"Our 'old haunt' since the family moved to Egypt," Jonathan said, opening the door and stepping aside to let his sister in. "Evy wasn't even walking then."

"I do believe I was," Evy protested. Jonathan snorted, "Oh, you weren't. You _crawled_."

Evy seemed to resist the urge to slap her brother and walked into the living room, her nose in the air. She was greeted by two simultaneous voices:

"Mum!"

"Evy!"

Jonathan waited a few seconds, then walked into the room in turn, and grinned at the sight of his nephew looking genuinely eager to see him. He was not fooled, however – as soon as Evy wasn't looking, Alex mouthed the words "Got one?" and frowned as his uncle shook his head. No, he still had no present for Mum's birthday.

Then Alex peered behind Jonathan and saw Tommy standing there, looking uncomfortable at the family reunion.

"Uncle Jon? Who's that?"

"Who, that one?" Jonathan pointed at his friend, and Alex rolled his eyes. "Tom Ferguson, was in class with me all through university. I ran into him by chance today."

Tommy stepped past Jonathan and held out his hand to Alex, nearest to him. "Hi – glad to see ya. Jon's nephew, eh?"

"Yeah," said Alex, eyeing him with all the suspicion of a ten-year-old who'd seen what he had seen. Behind him, Rick's eyes spoke loads about his own distrust. But mistrust toward Jonathan and everything related was rather usual on his part.

"Thomas Ferguson, British Antique Research Department," said Tommy, holding out a hand towards Rick, who shook it slowly, still reluctant.

"Rick O'Connell."

"So you're Dr O'Connell's husband? Pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm impressed, you've no idea."

Rick raised an eyebrow, "Impressed?"

"It seems I'm a known person in the Research Department," said Evy, laughing.

"The Department owes your wife a huge amount of information about some shady periods of Egyptian hist'ry, as well as the major part of serious knowledge we've got on Hamunaptra," Tommy pointed out, and Evy blushed. "She's a legend – one of the original three who managed to go to Hamunaptra and live to tell the tale – but – I assume you're another one?"

"Yeah," said Rick, looking a bit nonplussed. Jonathan definitely didn't regret bringing Tommy in. Seeing Rick O'Connell confused was a very rare occurrence, too rare to be missed.

"I never knew – who was the third one?"

Jonathan was now struggling to keep a straight face. Rick blinked, and pointed at his brother-in-law, "That was him."

"You!?" God, the look on his face was priceless. "_You_ were at Hamunaptra?"

"Yes," risked Jonathan, laughter rising in his voice. "And believe me, it wasn't quite the picnic. Oh, by the way, there were four of us, not three."

From the corner of his eye, he could see Rick roll his eyes and grinned, undaunted. This was proving to be a fun evening.

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Well, it's just the first chapter, innit? I'm posting the second in a tick. I hope you liked enough to be curious about the second … Can you tell I'm nervous about this story? :o) Oh, two things I forgot in my Author's Notes: I chose to set this story in 1937, and I chose to make it two years after Ahm Shere. I know that, in the film, we clearly see the captions THEBES – 1933, but 1935 is the date at the back of the DVD, and at the back of the novelisation. Besides, in the film, Red (the bald-ish one of the three thugs) states that the events of TM happened 'nine years ago', and Alex is eight. I'm not good at maths, but I chose to trust it nonetheless. Now, there are other explanations to the funny dates – LadyDeb chose another explanation, which is unique in fandom – I think – and very interesting. Check her stories, folks, she's a fantastic author.

Oh, and the second thing … The second thing is the chapter titles. I'm very, very fond of music, so every title is a song title or belongs to a song. So 'Overture' is the opening number of The Who's fabulous album _Tommy_, the very first rock opera of the history of music, and one of my favourite albums. Yes, yes, I know. On to the next chapter :o)


	2. Every Picture Tells a Story

**Author's Notes**: Wow, you're there! :o) Does that mean you liked the first? Ok, here's the second – a pretend croissant to who tells me who sang this song. Hope you like :o

Disclaimer: _Stephen Sommers owns and developed the characters of _The Mummy_, so feel free to blame him for my obsession :o) The characters, places, certain situations are his creation. Some faces and things I invented, some I twisted – but every character here is fictitious, and doesn't have anything to do with any person, living, dead, or… in-between. Who knows ;o)_

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**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 2: Every Picture Tells a Story_**

"So that's your office? I must say, I'm impressed, old boy."

"Knock it off, Jon."

The room was tiny and rather stuffy, and Jonathan had to wait a while before Tommy could find a spare chair, in this case a collapsible with a cloth back. The mess was indeed impressive – you couldn't see even a little bit of desk under all the huge, dusty files lying on it and all the loose sheets. All around the desk, the path was more or less cleared, but you still had to be extra careful not to step on books and files of variable shapes and sizes. The whole floor was cluttered up by cardboard boxes, some still held shut by adhesive tape, most of them open; as Jonathan peeped into one, he saw various items wrapped in protective paper.

Despite the messy aspect, Tommy's office gave an overall cheerful impression, helped by the sunlight pouring in through the window, high up the wall. Dust danced in the rays, and didn't seem to be willing to settle anywhere.

"Sorry for the shambles, mate," said Tommy, rummaging through the papers on his desk and starting to tidy everything up. "They made me move in here only a week ago, I haven't got enough time to clean it all up."

"Don't worry about that. I've seen worse."

Tommy's head shot up from the desk, glancing sheepishly at Jonathan, "Y'know, when I told your sister I was one of the chief operators … Well, I might have overstated the thing a lil' bit."

"No! You're not serious, are you?"

Tommy growled at Jonathan's smirk, and he fell silent, letting his eyes wander here and there. They finally came to rest upon the only thing that seemed tidy enough – a dozen old-looking books resting on a set of shelves.

Jonathan left his chair to look at the books. Some of them came directly from the British Museum, and looked as if they were borrowed from the archives – old and worn, with leather covers slightly damaged along the edges. Not to mention the dust. And they smelt like escapees from the City of the Dead.

"I say, that's some collection you've got yourself here," said Jonathan amazed as he read the date of print of a particularly shabby-looking one. "My God … Evy would go _mad_ if she saw this."

"I'm sure she would," Tommy said, emerging from the layers of paper and straightening himself up. "I just love these kinds of old books, you know; there's a feeling about them you just don't get with more – 'recent' ones. Now, where'd I put that bloody –"

"Looking for something in particular?"

"Yes," Tommy sighed as he dropped on his chair, only to jump up and remove something before sitting down. "I'm sure the folder we've got on Hamunaptra is lying 'round somewhere – can't seem to find it."

Jonathan put the book he was holding back on its shelf and looked at the desk, his hands in his pockets. "No wonder."

"Oh, that's gonna help for sure, Jon," muttered Tommy. Jonathan was about to reply something, when his eyes stopped on a small picture in a frame. It was a photograph of a woman, and the longer he stared at it, the more familiar the woman seemed. Finally, it clicked into place: the freckled face with a round nose and pointy chin, the mass of frizzy hair and the sweet, simple smile could only belong to one person.

"Hey! Isn't that Elizabeth McAlester?"

An uneasy sort of smile crept up on Tommy's lips, "Yes, that's her – 'cept her last name's not McAlester anymore."

Jonathan stared at him blankly for a full minute. Now this, of all things, was unexpected.

"You mean, she's – _you're_ –"

Tommy nodded, still smiling.

"How long –?"

"That'll make it seven years in October."

There was a moment's silence, during which this piece of news sank in. Elizabeth McAlester had been a cousin of a common friend, Arthur McAlester – a tall, gangly fellow with glasses constantly perched on the bridge of his long nose, rather bossy but altogether likeable. She was two or three years younger than them, and went to the girls' college in the same neighbourhood. Jonathan and Tommy had spent their last year wooing her in turn, although it was more of a game for the two boys than something really serious. None of them had really gone too far, though. They valued their reputation as gentlemen, and she was too much of a nice girl.

Thinking back on it, Jonathan realised that, had things worked out differently, Elizabeth would probably have been the only girl he could have spent some significant time with. She was smart, sweet, and funny when she wanted to. And he used to make her laugh – she had a nice laugh. But there was also the fact that she didn't love him. It certainly looked that way then.

He supposed that, if he had been a little smarter, he could have won her. Of course, that would have also meant spending less time in the pubs, gambling and drinking; that would have meant growing up, and he was simply not ready for that. Most fellows of twenty-five are not, after all – why would he'd been? Problem was, he was now forty, and most of people that age are supposed to be settled. Evy was younger than him, and Rick and her had been married for eleven years now. And Tommy and Elizabeth, of all people, had been together for seven years, and he had a picture of her on his desk. Hell, they must even have children.

Perhaps Jonathan should have been jealous – but he just couldn't be. Tommy was a decent guy, and Elizabeth was a nice girl; they deserved each other. He had had his chance, had messed up, and there was no way to get back what wasn't anymore. Petty jealousy was simply irrelevant there.

"That's great news, old boy," he finally said, with a heartfelt smile. "Congratulations. Wish I could have seen you in a suit, though."

Tommy beamed in return, obviously relieved, and Jonathan felt a pang of annoyance. Did Tom really think that he was going to be mad at him for _that_? This was ridiculous.

"Thanks, Jon. That means somethin' for me, y'know."

Dammit. It was still impossible to be thoroughly annoyed with Thomas Ferguson. He may retain his rotten luck, but he still had that innocent look on his broad face that fooled even the most sceptic of all. Even one Jonathan Carnahan.

A somewhat awkward silence passed. Jonathan was glad to end it when he spotted a folder under his chair and bent to take it for a closer look. "Here – wasn't that the one you were looking for?"

The file was very thick, with a hard cover, and it was held shut by an old belt. On a little bit of yellowish paper was scribbled, 'Hamunaptra, City of the Dead – Reign of Seti 1st, XIX Dynasty.'

Tommy crossed the room in two strides and all but snatched the file from Jonathan's hands, "That's it! That's the one." His old enthusiasm was back in his voice. "I haven't looked at it in years, guess it's been buried under a ton of other things."

"You can keep it if you want. It's not _that_ urgent, Evy can wait a bit."

"No, take it – just be sure to give it back before tonight, someone could ask for it … Though nobody's asked for it in years, so I can't see why someone would just now. Except for Hamilton, but even him –"

"Hamilton?"

"Charles Hamilton, my immediate superior. Odd guy, square-minded, very _clean_. He would be a very likeable fellow if someone took the umbrella off his arse, but that's just my opinion … Well. Fact is, I'm not really supposed to show that file to anyone, but as it's you and Dr O'Connell …"

Jonathan couldn't help but chortle. Tommy looked at him curiously.

"What're you laughin' at?"

"Oh, nothing, really – just the whole 'Dr O'Connell' business. Funny thing to hear someone speaking in so high terms about my baby sister … especially you."

Tommy shrugged and said with a grin, "Well, get used to it. Seriously, mate, I've heard of her since I was offered this job at the Research Department, and that was, what – ten years ago or so. Discovering Hamunaptra wasn't such a big deal, I bet loads of people (poor chaps!) must've managed that in centuries past, but –"

Jonathan, whose first sight of the ancient City had been the skeletons and dried-up corpses of previous adventurers, gave a grim smile. _Yes, indeed. Loads_.

"– But she, her husband and – and _you_ actually got out. Remind me to ask you how you did it someday, 'cause I still have troubles believing it."

"I bet you haven't heard half of the story," said Jonathan as a sly smile sneaked back on his lips.

"I hope you'll tell me some time, then. This and that weird stuff with the Scorpion King two years ago."

Jonathan opened his mouth, quite taken aback. "How d'you know that, for cripes' sake?"

"We, Mr Carnahan, know everything," Tommy said with a mock smug grin, which he then dropped to finish, sounding almost embarrassed, "Well, not quite everything, I guess. In fact there's still some huge blanks in the story."

"Blanks you'd like me to fill, eh?" Jonathan chuckled. "I get it, Tommy old chap. I'd tell you the whole story anytime."

Tommy's right eyebrow shot up. "Anytime? That would include now?"

"Didn't you say you had work to do?"

" 'Work to do'? Man, this _is_ what I work on! Gathering pieces of information, I mean. Can I take notes?"

"Yes, sure," said Jonathan, a little bit dumbfounded. "All right, you'd better take a seat, because this is going to be long …"

* * *

"And you told him the whole story of what happened at Ahm Shere?"

"And Hamunaptra, too. He already knew the main lines, anyway."

Evelyn shook her head. Jonathan could be a wonderful brother at times, but one of his major faults was and always had been his complete inability to keep a secret the way it should remain – secret.

"I can't believe you did that, Jonathan."

"Oh, come on Evy, please trust me on this one, will you? Tommy's reliable. He's a decent bloke."

His blue eyes were almost pleading, and Evelyn found her anger ebbing. The only times when he had proved so persuasive were when he tried to cover up for one of Alex's foolish stunts. And though she could never admit it, such an attitude was very endearing, in a cheeky, annoyingly efficient sort of way.

Then there was this file. She couldn't decently stay mad at him when he had been thoughtful enough to borrow it for her from this Ferguson fellow. And to tell the truth, she was positively dying to see what it contained. She couldn't wait to get home to open it.

"Jonathan, it's very touching to see you standing up for a friend, but you must admit that so far, the people you have entrusted with our, ah – family secrets – haven't proved very 'reliable', have they?"

"Tom is, Evy. I swear. And he works for the British Consulate, in case you've forgotten."

"Oh …," Evelyn sighed, about to give in, "if only this was a guarantee of safety …"

"Just because What's-his-name of the British Museum woke our mummy again and messed things up last time doesn't mean Tommy's not 'safe', old mum. Please –" and there he stopped her in her tracks and looked at her in the eye, "– believe me."

_Aw, dash it …_ It was still impossible to remain angry with him. She never could resist this unique mix of fake innocence, thoughtless cheekiness, and sincerity somewhere in the middle.

"All right, all right – quit pestering me, and I won't bother you about this Mr Ferguson anymore."

"Promise?"

"Yes, that's a promise."

Jonathan's 'persuader' expression turned into a dangerous smile, one that his sister knew only too well. As a rule, it meant troubles on the way.

"That's nice, Evy, because I asked him if he wanted to see the diamond while it's still here in Cairo –"

No exception to the rule today, it seemed. Evelyn was flabbergasted, but she said nothing … She had promised, after all.

"– And we agreed that a few minutes wouldn't hurt, and somewhere it's still my diamond in a way, a little – I mean, I know I sold it and everything, but I haven't looked at it in ages and –"

Evelyn let him talk until he ran out of words and finished on a rather lame, "And, well, I – I was hoping you could intercede on my behalf, you see …"

"You don't have to ask _me_," she said in a deliberately colder voice. "You'll have to see the curator for that. I wish you good luck convincing him."

Jonathan's face dropped.

"Evy, please! You're my sister! I've hardly ever seen this bloke, you're –"

"I'm far more gullible, is that what you meant to say?"

"No, it's not – that's – cripes, Evy, all I'm asking for is two words to the curator. Consider it payback for Tommy, he might've got into troubles lending you this secret file for the afternoon."

_The file. I'd almost forgotten it_. Although Jonathan's last sentence sounded a little like blackmail, ugly as the word was, it was true that Ferguson had seemed nice enough the day before. There was a cultured man, with a proper job – something of a change from Jonathan's usual dubious company – who respected and admired her work. She hadn't heard praise such as he'd given her in quite a long time. And he trusted her enough to lend her this file.

"Well," she said eventually, very slowly and reluctantly, "I suppose I could talk Dr Hakim into letting the two of you in the diamond's room … Not alone, of course, and only for a few moments. I'll see tomorrow if –"

She started when her brother kissed her on the cheek, beaming.

"Dear, sweet Evy, you're the best sister any decent fellow would ever dream of."

"Oh, come off it," sighed Evelyn, who couldn't help but smile all the same.

They found the house empty: Rick had taken Alex to the bazaar downtown. Evy quickly sat down on the sofa and carefully put the file on the low table in front of her, while Jonathan disappeared in the kitchen. She didn't wait for him and opened the folder.

It contained mainly sheet after sheet of paper covered in tiny scrawl, and as she ran her eye over them she could tell it was a report of sorts, with dates, names, and more or less precise directions. There were newspaper cuttings, some of them quite old, and also some sepia photographs. She was leafing through them when Jonathan put a cup of tea on the table and sat beside her, a glass in his hands.

"So? Have you already dug some stuff up?"

"I guess so, yes … I didn't know Lord Carnavon had worked on Hamunaptra as well …"

"Lucky that he didn't tell everybody, one curse as cause of death is well enough – didn't need two," quipped Jonathan. Evelyn elbowed him and picked up another set of pictures. Her brother's eyes widened.

"Evy, that's – that's us!"

He was right. Though the photographs were old, blurred, and of rather bad quality, the figures on it were unmistakable. They must have been taken shortly after Hamunaptra, because Evelyn saw some shots of Jonathan with his left arm in a sling, and several of herself and Rick, arm in arm, both their faces shining with sun and laughter. She remembered how it was, back then – the slight awkwardness between them, the happiness fluttering in her stomach each time his hand brushed against hers, even by accident; it had seemed to her that she was constantly walking on a little cloud, inches above the ground, silly as this comparison may sound.

Of course, she had got down from this cloud long ago – but reality had not been as harsh as her school friends had once told her. Rick was a wonderful husband, and there was never a second of boredom between them. Even after eleven years of marriage, he still took every opportunity to seduce her. Not in the romantic, literary way, with one-to-one diners and candlelight, but something in the way he looked at her over the table, the twinkle in his eye that was for her and her alone never failed to make her melt. And after all these years, he still managed to make her blush, too. Of course, she protested, saying that it was absolutely ridiculous for a thirty-six year old woman to blush; but he'd just laugh softly, his rich chuckle sending shivers down her spine, and making her feel as if she were twenty-five again.

Jonathan often said some people were born lucky. Hers was another kind of luck – she may not have a 'proper' social life like acquaintances of hers in London had, but the four men of her life, namely Rick, Alex, Jonathan, and Ardeth – in a very slightly lesser extent, as she saw him fairly rarely – were the four people she loved most, and they were wonderful. Lady Maria Evans and her circle of snobby friends would never know how it felt to die and being brought back to life by her eight-year-old son and her brother. She would never know the overwhelming smell of gunpowder, the ache you get in your shoulder from the recoil, the deafening noise, how it felt to be kissed awake by a three-thousand-years old mummy – but then, had Evy been able to, she would have gladly skipped this part. Ew.

"I say, Evy, do you think they'll mind if we took a couple of photos to put them into frames?"

Jonathan's voice drew her back from the memories, and she looked at the pictures in her brother's hands. There was another one or two of Rick and her, one of the three of them – in the streets of Cairo, by the look of it – and a full-length one of Jonathan alone, his hands in his pockets, his nose in the air, and a curious look on his face. There was something funny and rather sweet about this one, that matched the involuntary subject's general attitude: offhand, ironic, foppish, forgetful, but altogether loyal and kind. Evelyn was indeed tempted to keep it, as Jonathan had suggested.

"I agree that some of those would be worth it," she said, smiling. "But maybe you'd better ask your friend first –"

An odd thought crossed her mind at the mention of Tom Ferguson. When she had met him the day before, he had clearly shown that he didn't know Jonathan had been a part of the Hamunaptra mission. But it just would have taken a look at the contents of this file to know that his former schoolmate had been involved – his full name was written in black and white, and the photographs were faithful enough. Besides, Jonathan had not changed _that_ much over the years.

"Jonathan, I've just thought of something – Tom knows this file, does he? I mean, you told me he's been working in the Department for ages, so he must have read it at some point, right?"

"I suppose so, yes. And your point is?"

"Well, perhaps I'm just being silly, but how come he didn't know you were at Hamunaptra? Your name and your face are all over these papers, look …"

Jonathan frowned slightly, and bent to look at the sheet she held out for him. There was an account of that night so long ago in the Sultan's Kasbah that had started it all, and it was just as Rick had told her when she had asked how her sticky-fingered brother had managed to steal his puzzle box.

"Whoa, Evy … that's fairly detailed, you know." She saw his eyes dart from the top to the bottom of the sheet; then he exclaimed, "Of course, that slimy git – that Kasbah barman, what's his name again … Oh yes, Musa. I bet he was the one who gave them such a precise account."

Evelyn didn't know what made her insist thus, but she continued, "You see? He could hardly miss you. And yet he seemed to ignore completely your part in the trip to and from Hamunaptra. By the way, my name was Carnahan at the time, not O'Connell. I don't understand why he looked so surprised to see that his famous Dr O'Connell and your bossy little sister were in fact one single person – it's just not logical."

There was a short silence, during which Jonathan seemed to ponder her words. Then he turned to face her, and to her surprise, there was something like anger in his voice when he said, "You're really something, you know, Evy. Stubborn as a mule, I'd say. I told you Tommy was a decent fellow, I mean – you met him, he's not some sort of bandit or something!"

"I'm not saying he is, Jonathan," Evy said gently; she had not expected this at all. "I'm merely pointing out a fact. You must admit that it does look a bit weird, doesn't it?"

"Well, don't point. Fact is, you can't admit that I know someone that you don't, who's smart, trustworthy, who works in the same stuff as you, and who also happens to be a damn good fellow to drink with."

Evelyn raised her eyebrows. "What exactly are you talking about?"

"Just what I've said. Leave him alone. I don't understand why you're nagging about him. Besides, Tom adores you – you should hear the way he praises you to the skies."

"I'm not nagging. Honestly, Jonathan, from the little I've seen of him, I like him well enough – he seems to be good company, a funny, cultured, clever fellow. And I'm flattered to hear that he thinks so highly of me. But rationally and logically speaking, there are some tiny details that bother me."

She had spoken and chosen her words carefully, not wanting to start a row. She hated being at odds with her brother when he wasn't the one who had started it – it made her feel uneasy and oddly guilty. He had been her only family for a long time, after all, and neither she nor he was likely to forget it. They shared something special.

Anger faded from the bright blue eyes, and Jonathan's expression turned into something that looked remarkably like a pout.

"Can't you just leave these out for me?"

Evy almost laughed. "I won't say I'll forget it, but I won't pester you about it anymore. Just – I know I'll sound silly again, but don't be angry with me for that. I don't like it at all when you are."

This time, the usual smile was back on her brother's face, and he sank back in the sofa, his half-empty glass still in his hands, "Ah, come on, Evy – that was silly indeed … You sounded like a kid. Don't worry, I'm not angry with you … I'm just annoyed that, for once I haven't done anything, and I mean _anything_, you still find a way to be suspicious."

_Of course, put that way …_ Evelyn could understand Jonathan's annoyance, and respected his faith in his friend, but still. It was only a few minor things, but the logic, scientific part of her mind was puzzled. Of course, it could just be that Tom Ferguson had a bad memory – she had never seen a folder so dusty, so she supposed he really hadn't opened it in a _long_ time … She'd find a way to chat about it with him some time. Casually, of course, in passing.

Maybe it was her instinct. Or maybe it was just her curiosity. That particular trait had been said many times to run in the family, and Evy was forced to recognise that it had proved true in many occasions.

Especially when it came to herself.

* * *

I have fun writing scenes with Evy and Jonathan. A lot :o) I absolutely love their interaction in TM, and it was something I missed slightly when I watched TMR. So, when I write them, I can't help writing with my memories of TM in mind. It's also fun to imagine Evy, having grown from the girl she is in TM into the self-assured, brilliant woman – and mother – inches from running the British Museum in TMR, being childish enough to bicker with her brother :D


	3. Trouble on the Way

**Author's notes:** Aaaand I'm back! Congrats – and pretend croissant – to LaurieM. who guessed who sang _Every Picture Tells a Story_. Yep, Rod Stewart; it's one of the very few of his that I love, and it's on the soundtrack of _Almost Famous_, a film that I love. But this is not the point. Here's the third chapter; the title comes from _Bad Moon Rising_, by Creedence Clearwater Revival. I hope you enjoy this one… There are a few new faces, and… a little cliffhanger at the end :o) The thankyous are at the end of the chapter. Thanks :o)

Oh, glory and trumpets! _I have a beta-reader!_ LaurieM has agreed to beta-read my story, and I'm very glad about that – she's the author of _Deeper Within Darkness_: check it out, it's a fantastic story.

Thanks, Laurie :o)

* * *

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 3: Trouble on the Way_**

"Oh no, please, Rick, not you too!"

Rick began to laugh. Why did people talk so much about boredom within married couples? Eleven years, and Evy still managed to amaze him. In more ways than one.

"Look, honey, I don't mean to follow the pack or anything, but you truly see trouble everywhere. And you know what? I was wrong."

"Were you?" Evelyn seemed pleased, then puzzled. "About what?"

"You don't just attract trouble. You create most of 'em as well."

He had to chuckle at the look on his wife's face. Then he pulled her close and kissed her to let her know he was joking. For all of her qualities, Evelyn was still having some problems catching onto Rick's humour at times. Rather funny, considering all he had heard about the famous British sense of humour.

She eventually smiled, and the dark room was silent for a short while. Her head was lying on the pillow right next to his face, and he almost had his nose in her dark hair. The scent of it had changed ever so slightly since they had left London; it was now a bit headier, deeper, and reminded him of sand, stupid as that may sound. The thought that he had come to love the smell of sand made him smile inwardly. He'd have to tell her that, some day. In the meantime, he let his eyes wander up and down her body, and wondered at the feeling that grew in him as he gazed at the attractive curves. Before Evelyn, Rick had never truly had a real home, and had not really been looking for one anyway. By finding her, he had found out that he didn't need a big house to settle in and everything; his 'home' was simply wherever she was. Now this was a thought that he liked a lot.

Ah – his lingering gaze was beginning to make Evy blush. If that wasn't an added bonus … She was so funny then, with her reddening cheeks, her bright eyes, and the way she bit her lip to keep herself from smiling. The fact that she generally failed delighted him, as his wife happened to be very cute in her unsuccessful attempts to suppress a smile.

"Well, Jonathan always said that there was a nosy streak in the family, but that I was the worst case he'd ever seen. Can you believe that?"

Her eyes demanded an answer from Rick. And he did answer, although he considered that this particular moment in this particular place was maybe not best chosen to talk about his brother-in-law.

"Okay, that's a bit rich coming from him, but you're still the nosiest librarian I've ever met. That's my own opinion about it, and you must admit that there's some ground in my judgement."

"And _you_ ought to admit there's some ground in my line of reasoning as well. I mean, think about it! Why pull the act of surprise while he really knew all along …"

"Knew what?"

"Who I – who we were, what we've done … After what I saw in that file, I'm even surprised he didn't bring up Ardeth's name."

"It was in –?"

"Oh, yes. There were at least four pages about the Medjai tribe, from their role as Pharaoh's bodyguards to the protection of the City of the Dead …"

"And Ardeth was mentioned personally?"

"I read his name three or four times. It seems that he was made High Commander of the Medjai in 1932, barely a few years before the second Raising of Imhotep."

Rick didn't quite know what to say to that. The Medjai were a desert tribe, one of the most secret ones, and so far he had thought that only a handful of people were aware of their existence. Especially in this ever-changing world where no one seemed to care much about mummies, ancient civilisations, dashing adventurers, and mysterious men guarding tombs. Most of the stuff he came across in London's papers was more likely to involve shady political manoeuvres, arms races, treaties, or even winning more gold in the next Olympics.

No wonder there were some times when Rick felt slightly out of place.

"So, all this fussing about the first three folk to return from Hamunaptra –"

"All right, it might also be that he's absent-minded, or that it's really been _ages_ since he last looked into this file … Otherwise, yes. It'd be all wind."

Rick thought it over for a minute, then pointed out, "You know, I value your argument and all, but are you aware that you're probably making all this fuss about nothing at all? The guy seemed harmless enough to me – the only thing I was worrying about yesterday was that he looked ready to carry you off, even though you're wearing this ring."

To add more weight to his words, he gently took his wife's left hand and kissed her third finger. Evy grinned at that, but let him finish, her eyes never leaving his face. They shone even more through the dark.

"Anyway, I hope your feelings about it are wrong, sweetheart."

"Believe it or not, darling, so do I," said Evelyn, nestling her head against his neck. "Much as I love being right, I wouldn't like it very much if I really had reason to worry about Mr Ferguson. Jonathan looked a little upset this afternoon when I spoke to him about it."

"You 'spoke' to him? Look, you know I'm not overly fond of your brother, but that was maybe not the wisest thing to do." Rick paused, then frowned slightly. "What exactly did you tell him anyway?"

"Well, I merely pointed out a couple of details to him."

"What kind of details?"

"For one thing, the fact that it was strange that Ferguson didn't seem to know Jonathan had been to Hamunaptra. And also that he didn't see any relation between Evelyn Carnahan and Dr Evelyn O'Connell. It wasn't such a big deal, honestly."

"Yeah." Rick scratched his blond head. "How did he react?"

"Jonathan? He sounded – sort of angry. Childishly so, so it was not really surprising, but it was odd to see him overreact that way."

Rick was quiet for a minute, as he let his hand run from the shoulder to the hip of his wife. Of course, the thought of the warm skin underneath the nightdress sneaked into his mind and he tried to shut it off, keeping that for later. For the moment, he had something to explain to Evelyn.

"Look, Evy … I'll say this only once, so listen up. I understand your brother. If I'd met an old buddy of mine, and my sister had insinuated shady stuff about him after seeing him only for an evening, I would've been pretty angry."

"You don't have a sister that I know of."

"I know I don't," said Rick, rolling his eyes. "But that, Evelyn, my love, is not the point."

It was her turn to frown slightly. In the dark, he saw her blink thoughtfully a few times. "So, your point is?"

"My point is, give it time. Don't go 'speaking' more about that to Jonathan – you'll never get a rational answer. Because that's what you want, right?"

Evelyn let out a little laugh. "Yes, well, Jonathan's not quite what I'd call 'rational' most of the time. I might've guessed that he wouldn't be rational about that. He's far too confiding, though – one of these days that'll rebound on him."

"Your memory's that bad? It already has. A number of times. God, choosing Mark Bellamy as poker partner …" Rick couldn't help a snort. Bellamy was more of a cheat that Jonathan could ever dream to get, and that had caused his brother-in-law to lose quite spectacularly. He had just been lucky that Bellamy was only a little cheating bastard, not some gang leader.

Evy didn't answer anything, and Rick took the opportunity to crawl closer to her, and began to say between kisses, "Sweetheart, why don't we – forget about all that and – the rest? We can always talk about it – tomorrow. What d'you say?"

She eased herself among the pillows, and smiled before answering, "That'd be good, yes."

One minute later, Rick had forgotten everything that was not exclusively Evelyn.

* * *

"That's it, now. I'm surrounded by married couples."

Tommy turned to Jonathan with an eyebrow raised, and Evy began to laugh softly. "Is it as bad as you make it sound?"

Jonathan snorted, "Oh, no. It's worse. See that chap over here?" He pointed to Tommy, who looked surprised. "He told me yesterday that he married a common friend seven years ago. So he's turned sides. Lousy traitor."

Tommy grinned, getting the joke.

"Really?" Evy's voice was polite, but there was a definite pleasure in it as well. "Congratulations, Mr Ferguson. About that happy event, but also for not turning out a complete scoundrel, like my brother here."

They were walking to the Museum – Evy had kept her promise, and arranged an interview with Dr Hakim, the curator. Despite the overwhelming heat – it was three in the afternoon – Jonathan felt quite thrilled about this interview. He was going to see the diamond, for the first time in almost two years, and show it to Tommy, who had never seen it. Of course, it was a bit of a drag not being able to touch it – not to mention taking it with him – but that was something already.

"What is your wife's name?"

"Elizabeth, we met in Oxford years ago. She's in our home in Dorset right now, she works for the telephone company."

Evy slowed down her pace to be level with Jonathan, and looked at him thoughtfully. "You know, now that I think of it, you've never, ever brought up the subject of marriage …"

"That's because I happen to enjoy my life as a happy debauched bachelor, thank you very much," said Jonathan, sarcastic. Women and their obsession with marriage … He just couldn't see the point.

"I'm sure you do," she retorted in the same tone of voice. "And that's too bad, really, because I think I would've liked being an aunt."

Jonathan opened his mouth to reply something, but she was quicker, "Of course, there's also the fact that I don't think any sane woman would want to share her life with you. As I know you, you'd be picking her pockets in less than three days."

Right. Now Jonathan was fuming. "Now listen here, you –"

"I know, I have no right to speak to you like that – I'll probably be regretting it for the rest of the day, but be that as it may, I'm married, to a wonderful person, and I have a wonderful son. Remember how Mrs Pemberton used to rant on and on about how the blood would be dying with us, because you were a rascal and I was turning spinster. Jonathan, I found someone – why don't you try and search, some day?"

Evy had stopped in the middle of the pavement at some point of her speech, and was now staring at him in a way that made him look away. She would not move until she'd got an answer, he knew her well enough to be aware of that. Careful to avoid glancing at Tommy, who was standing a few feet ahead of them pretending he wasn't seeing nor hearing anything, he waited to let his anger die off a little and said, "Now look. Don't mix things up. I'm not you – I'm not even like you. I like my life just as it is, and I'm sure _you_ like your life the way it is as well. I'm not marrying some girl just to please you, so it's no use to badger me about something like that, all right? If, by extraordinary chance, I happen to change my mind on the subject, you'll be the first to know, I swear. 'Til that day, please, not a word about it."

Evy looked dumbfounded, and a little hurt, as Jonathan noticed with a slight pang of conscience. He hated to see his baby sister hurt, especially when he was the one who had caused it. With a sigh, he took her by the arm and started walking again.

"Come on, don't be offended – you're the one who brought up the subject, remember?"

She said nothing, and when he looked over at Tommy, he noticed that his friend's shoulders were hunched, as if he was still waiting for the storm to pass.

"All right, all right, I'm sorry I said that. Just – forget about it, will you?" _Cripes_. His one and only sister, and he still didn't know what to say when he'd upset her. "Besides, you're a great mum and all, but you don't know, maybe you'd be terrible as an aunt." Ah, he thought he caught something flicker over his sister's face. So he pressed on, of course. "Right, try to imagine _me_ as a dad. Now if that doesn't make you laugh …" Hooray! Victory was at hand – Evy had that strained half-smile she gave when she had her mind set on not smiling. Jonathan had seen this expression directed at him quite a number of times when they were younger; now, it occurred mostly when Alex was trying to make it up to his mum after a prank gone wrong. If there was something the boy took after his uncle, it was the ability to get himself out of every tricky situation. But Jonathan wasn't sure if the knack of getting himself into this kind of situation first came from Evy or himself.

As they came into view of the Museum, he whispered in his sister's ear, "Well, if you're really _that_ mad at me, let's go find that bloody Book of the Dead, raise a mummy or two, and save the world again – you could let steam off, and I could make it up to you by … doing the best I can."

That made Evy's eyes dart up to him, and he was immensely glad to see a smile finally dawn on her face, "Like you did last time?"

Jonathan scratched the back of his neck. He looked briefly at his sister, gave an embarrassed grin, and turned to look ahead at the entrance of the Museum of Antiquities, "Ah … yes. Like last time."

Evelyn gave her brother's arm a very slight squeeze, and the smile didn't disappear from her face. Tommy grinned at him, and Jonathan grinned back. Too bad that the bloke never had a baby sister; he didn't know the wonderful feeling of victory one could get by simply getting a smile from his sister after a conversation like that.

The curator was in his office, standing in front of his desk while waiting for them, which was rather exceptional – Dr Fahad Hakim was not the sort of man who liked to wait for someone. He was a thin man, of average height, with thick pepper-and-salt hair. Jonathan saw his small black eyes narrow at the sight of them, and was instantly reminded of how very uncomfortable this fellow made him feel each time he saw him. The ancient Medjai legacy must include the beady, steady stare that was one of Ardeth's specialities.

"Mrs O'Connell. Right on time, as always." Evy was acknowledged with a polite smile that unveiled white teeth. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing pleasant about the way Hakim shifted his glance from sister to brother, though the tone remained polite. "Mr Carnahan." Whatever his sister had said to persuade this dragon to let him stand four feet away from the diamond, she sure had been quite good in convincing him.

Jonathan gulped discreetly, and refrained himself from taking a step backwards, intent on keeping what little dignity he had left. Tommy looked at him quizzically.

"Dr Hakim?" Best to leave the entire relation job to Evy. She was easily the best at that – far better than Rick and him. "May I introduce Mr Thomas Ferguson, from the British Antiques Research Department – I talked to you about him yesterday."

"I certainly remember you doing so. Good afternoon, Mr Ferguson," said Dr Hakim, extending a hand to Tommy, who shook it. In a pretty different way than he had shook Jonathan' and Evy's – Evelyn had lectured him on how to behave toward the curator.

"I'm honoured, Doctor. How do you do?" Tom's voice was polite and even – it seemed to surprise Evy, and it sure surprised her brother. Hell, how could he tone down that accent of his at will?

The curator looked pleasantly surprised, too – ever so slightly – as he nodded his appreciation. Then he left his desk and walked over to the door. "Mrs O'Connell, gentlemen – shall we proceed?"

The three of them left Hakim's office and walked down the corridor, Evelyn, Hakim and Tommy in the lead, discussing animatedly some dynasty of Pharaohs, Jonathan trailing slightly behind. He was gazing around him at the old stonewalls, grateful for the change in temperature – it was really stiflingly hot outside – and not really listening to the conversation.

When they passed through a room where a few mummies were displayed, he could not help a silent snort, remembering the scream his sister had let out when he had quite literally 'raised' a mummy from its sarcophagus, on that particular morning, so long ago. Some things turned out quite weird, really: he couldn't recall some events that had taken place one week ago, but he had kept in mind every detail of the day after the Sultan's Kasbah, when he had shown that bloody 'puzzle box' to Evy. Down to the fact that the Bembridge scholars had rejected his sister's application for the third time. And also the massive hangover he had been going through at the moment.

They crossed a small number of rooms, and finally stopped in front of a large wooden door. Evy and Tommy stepped aside as Hakim took out a bunch of keys, then opened the door.

The room behind it was small, and rather dark, the only ray of light coming from a high, fairly large window. There were several items, but none of them caught Jonathan's attention as much as the diamond, sitting imposingly on a low, sober-looking display shelf against the wall. The light was mirrored in its numerous facets, only stopped by the elaborated gold decorations.

The Diamond of Ahm Shere in all its gleaming glory.

"Whoa," whispered Tommy, his eyes goggling.

"I know the feeling," said Jonathan in the same voice, a big grin pulling at the left corner of his mouth. "Takes your breath away, doesn't it?"

Tommy only nodded, blinking.

"The diamond taken from Ahm Shere," announced Hakim, heading for the gem with Evy, "although I suspect you already know the story behind it, Mr Ferguson, since you appear to be familiar with both Egyptian secrets and the ones who brought it here."

"I do know the story," Tommy said, not taking his fascinated eyes off the diamond. "Is it true, what I've heard? About the link between the oasis and the diamond?"

That drew Jonathan's attention away from the gem. "What link?" he asked, puzzled. "What're you on about?"

"According to what Ardeth once told me," said Evy, taking a step to have a better look at the diamond, "the pyramid would be a sort of lock to the oasis, to which the diamond would be the key. But I didn't quite understand what he meant by that. Besides, I had other things on my mind, at that point." She trailed off, and Jonathan realised that this conversation must have taken place aboard Izzy's dirigible, on their way to Ahm Shere. While they had been chasing after Imhotep and Anck-su-namun, who had kidnapped Alex. Bloody rotten mummies.

"Why didn't _I_ catch that bit?" he asked, interested in both the answer and talking Evy away from the memory. That worked, and she stared at him, a dark thin eyebrow raised quizzically.

"I believe it had something to do about you dreaming about that 'gold pyramid' …"

Jonathan opened his mouth, but, deciding that he'd had enough quarrelling with his sister to last him a long time, shut it and turned back to the diamond with a non-committal shrug.

Then they heard the footsteps. Hurried footsteps racing up the hall, coming closer and closer, until –

"Dr Hakim! Dr Hakim!"

The curator walked over to the door, where a young, skinny Egyptian fellow had just come rushing in, his tanned face in a sweat.

"What is the matter, Jamal?" asked Hakim in a slightly strained voice, and Jonathan marvelled at the cold, calm curator suddenly coming so close to losing his cool.

"Problems – problems in the – the Akhenaten chamber," the young assistant panted breathlessly. "Someone has moved pieces – the bust of the accursed Pharaoh has been set down – glass all over the floor, must be a broken window –"

"Calm yourself, Jamal," said Hakim, putting a hand on the lad's shoulder. "I'm going. Have you told Abdul?"

"Yes, sir, I met him on the way here," stammered Jamal. "What shall I do?"

"Just give me one second while I speak to our guests," answered Hakim patiently, and his steady voice seemed to have a calming effect on the boy. He nodded, and leaned against the wall for support, as Hakim turned to his 'guests'.

"Well, I'm genuinely sorry that the visit was so dramatically shortened, but it appears I am needed. May I escort you to the main hall?"

Tommy opened his mouth, looking scandalised, but Jonathan was quicker. "Come on, can't we just stay a mite longer? I mean, what's the worse that could possibly happen?"

"Whoever broke into the Museum could break in here and steal some more objects," replied the curator, coolly. "And I believe you've seen enough of the diamond. After all, it is all that it seems – just a gem."

"It's not 'just a gem'!" exclaimed Tommy. "It's the only remnant of the Oasis of Ahm Shere – the key to the pyramid and the chambers within!"

"What exactly do you know about it?" Evy piped up, and Jonathan noticed The glint in her eyes. _Oh, boy_. Whenever it appeared, this glint meant trouble.

Tommy shrugged disappointedly, "Not much more than you do. My superiors aren't quite keen on giving out bits of information."

Jonathan didn't like the look on Evy's face, so he stepped up and tried to be rational, for once. "We could stand sentinel. You know, guard this room or something, until you find the guy. Nothing's going to happen to the contents of this room while I'm in it, I swear."

"And I'll help," added Tommy. "Believe me, if anyone tries to break in uninvited, I'll bash his 'ead in."

The curator looked unimpressed, but Evelyn stared at them, frowning, "Can we actually trust you with the diamond? Do you swear that nothing will happen?"

"Evy, I swear on my own head," said Jonathan, seriously. Well, almost. He really wanted to be, though.

Beside him, Tommy nodded solemnly, his face impassive. Evy sighed. For some reason, it was Hakim who spoke, and even more surprising, there was a ghost of a smile on his severe face, "Well. It would seem that you are quite determined. Consider yourself to be on a mission from now on. I may be wrong, of course – but I have a few reasons to think we can trust you." And he smiled. He actually smiled slightly at Jonathan, his eyes still stern, and the Englishman got the feeling that he might be familiar with the events that occurred at Ahm Shere. Maybe Ardeth had told him, as they were distant blood relatives. In fact, their closeness was certainly more due to their both being Medjai than their actual kinship.

Jonathan stared back, a feeling of pride growing in him. Then he shook himself out of it and grinned, "Well, thanks – for trusting us, I mean. There's not many people who'd do that, I guess."

Evy chuckled, and the curator's face went back to its usual gravity.

"We will conduct a thorough search," he said, turning to young Jamal, "and I hope we'll be able to catch the intruders in time. Stay here with Messrs Carnahan and Ferguson, while Mrs O'Connell and I gather the attendants for the search."

"Yes, Dr Hakim, sir," said Jamal in a firmer voice, straightening his fez on his head. Hakim laid briefly a hand on his shoulder again, and, after a last glance at Jonathan and Tommy, he walked off with Evy. A few seconds later, there was the sound of a key turning in its lock, and footfall dying away.

There was silence; then Jonathan went to sit on the floor, his back against the wall. Tommy soon came to join him.

"Well, that's quite some sister you've got, mate. She's not only smart, she's got guts as well," he said after a little while.

"I know." Jonathan grinned. "She and her family – they're the stuff heroes are made of."

"Knock it off, Jon. You're her family too, in case you've forgotten."

"Of course I haven't, you idiot – it's just that I'm no hero. Try as I may, I'll always be the average bloke, and I sure like it that way. God knows they need someone normal in the family, for a change. Bloody bunch of heroic nutcases, the lot of them."

Tommy nodded with a smile, and didn't press the matter further, something for which Jonathan was secretly grateful. He didn't really feel like talking about that, for some reasons that he couldn't explain. He didn't want to, anyway.

He looked up across the room to Jamal. The boy was standing near the door as he gazed at the chamber, looking a little scared. He couldn't be more than twenty-two or so.

"Hey, boy – your name's Jamal, right?"

The assistant started, and looked at them curiously, as if he wasn't sure that the Englishman had actually addressed him. Jonathan grinned encouragingly.

"Erm, yes," stuttered Jamal. "It is. You're Mr Carnahan, aren't you?"

"That'd be me, yes – didn't know I was that famous." Jonathan nodded. "And this fellow here, with the weird accent, is Tommy Ferguson."

Tom waved briefly with a smile. Jamal nodded respectfully, and stared back at Jonathan. "You're the Jonathan Carnahan who brought the Diamond of Ahm Shere to the museum?"

"Yes," he said, both pleased and puzzled by such fame. "How long have you been working here for?"

"Three months, sir," answered the boy. "Dr Hakim was very kind to hire me even if I was not twenty-one. I really needed to work, and I like to work here."

"How old are you, anyway?" asked Tommy.

"Twenty-one now, sir. My birthday was last month."

"Jolly good – happy birthday, then, son!" said Jonathan, grinning. "Even if it's a bit late –"

Something made the three of them look up at the window. There was a sound behind it, although Jonathan didn't recognise what it was exactly.

Then, suddenly, another kind of sound came from the door. And this time, the Englishman recognised it at once – somebody was trying to break through it.

"Tom –"

"I heard."

Jamal had joined them near the wall, shaking like a leaf. As the noise didn't stop, Jonathan started to feel the familiar cold sensation rising in his stomach, which meant he was dangerously close to panic. There was no adventurer around, no blazing guns this time. _What to do, what to do, what to do …_

Turning around wildly, he caught sight of a cylindrical thingy with the head of Horus on the top. He grabbed it and joined Tommy who was standing in front of the door. Jamal was a few feet away, still shivering, but resolute.

"Don't you need –?" asked Jonathan, as he noticed his friend's hands were empty of any weapon. He was answered by a grim smile.

"Don't worry, mate. I won't."

The fiddling with the lock was growing more and more noisy, and through his panic, a part of Jonathan's brain that was still functioning marvelled at the fact that those guys, whoever they were, had managed to find, amidst all the rooms and chambers of the museum, the one that hid the diamond.

And them. Though not for so long, it seemed.

_CRACK!!_ The window was smashed into pieces, distracting the three men for a second as they whirled around – it was one second too many. The door banged open, and before Jonathan could turn back to it, fantastic pain exploded at the back of his head. He had the sensation to fall backwards, the metal cylinder still clutched in his hand; a split second later, the world turned blood red, then black, and he knew no more.

* * *

Erm, sorry about that. I promise the fourth chapter will come soon :o)

Now, to the shout-outs:

**_Lilylynn_**: Thanks :o) I hope you've appreciated this one as you have the previous ones. I do keep it up, since I'm soon going to start on the 12th chapter; anyway, I'll send the fourth to my beta-reader ASAP!

**_Lucky Fannah_**: I take it you're a Jonathan fan, eh? Thanks for the nice review :o) Evy and Jon are both so much fun to write; it's logical that they should send sparks when they are together in a scene. Thanks!

**_Laurie_**: Wow! Reviews like yours are a delight to read when your day's not been that good – _and_ when it has. Thank you for that. Jon and Alex… In fact, what 'inspired' me for scenes such as the small conversation in Chapter 1 is that uncle and nephew are really the two 'kids' of the family – they bicker, but they do stick together; remember the scene in TMR just before Alex shows the photo of the curator to Rick and Alex? Jon has his hands on the boy's shoulders throughout the scene. It's cute little things like this that made me think; and thinking led to writing. As usual :o)

Thanks, and stay tuned for more!


	4. Stormy Weather

**Author's Notes:** I told you I wouldn't be that long :o) Even if I love all the characters of TM and TMR (yep, even Beni, but I wouldn't know how to write him!), Jonathan's my personal favourite, I wouldn't hurt him … much :D Anyway, as you maybe know, _Stormy Weather_ was a song performed by the great Louis Armstrong, and I thought the title would fit. Now you decide :o)

Oh, and if folks who know much more than me about Ancient Egypt noticed the wrong spelling of the Heretic Pharaoh Akhenaten in the previous chapter, I'm sorry – it's just that 'Akhenaton' is the French spelling of the name. I have no idea why the spelling should change with recent languages such as French and English, but I'll come back and correct it.

_Disclaimer:__ Michael Jackson owns the songs of the Beatles, and being a Beatles freak I'm still a little miffed at that, but otherwise all of the characters starring here belong to Steven Sommers, except Tom Ferguson, Dr Fahad Hakim, and Jamal Hassan, whom I created. Shame, though. I mean, what could Steven Sommers do with them now? (If he is a fanfiction writer, I take this back and take a bow. But I'm still waiting for the proof, you know.)_

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* * *

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**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

_**Chapter 4: Stormy Weather**_

Evelyn started to notice that peculiar, ominous feeling as she and Dr Hakim walked swiftly down the stairs to the Akhenaten chamber to inspect the scale of the disaster. By the time they got into the chamber and met with Abdul, the chief attendant, she was quite certain that something was amiss, although she couldn't put her finger on what it was.

While Dr Hakim, Abdul and his aides tidied up the room in search for anything missing, she ran to the various ways in and out of the museum to lock them all up so that the intruders, once in, couldn't go out. When she had eventually finished, she headed back to the chamber of Akhenaten, the Heretic.

"Doctor?" she called when she ran back into the room. "I locked the entrances, they won't be able to get out – I hope. What did they take?"

"Nothing," answered the curator in a strange, strained voice, stepping back from a shelf where he and Abdul had put back all the statuettes that had been thrown down. "Absolutely nothing. Not even the ivory figurine of Kheops, which was the smallest in the room and could be easily slipped into a pocket … It seems that they only meant to create a diversion."

_A diversion …_ Evelyn suddenly realised that none of the entrances she had locked had been forced. Either they had got in by another way, or … Someone had let them in. The museum was closed for the day, no visitor or foreign person was allowed entry.

A thought struck her, and she opened her mouth, her eyes wide. "Dr Hakim – none of the doors were broken – maybe they had help from the inside. And that means …"

Dr Hakim stared at her, his black eyes flashing, "Carry on, Mrs O'Connell. Let's see if your idea is akin to mine, as I believe."

"That means they would know the exact location of the diamond's chamber," Evelyn completed, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "I believe it's one of the most valuable items you have here … Valuable in certain eyes, of course, since most of the hieroglyphics and statuettes here are inestimable, but …"

She didn't mention the true reason behind that idea – that everything related to Hamunaptra and Ahm Shere had so far brought nothing but misfortune every time it resurfaced. And she had the vague impression that now was going to turn out to be one of these times. Here we go again, as Rick would have said.

Dr Hakim nodded and spoke a few words in Arabic to Abdul, who gave orders to his aides. It was strange to see Abdul in charge – he had been one of the youngest attendants in her time as the museum librarian. Now he looked quite at ease, and took his job very seriously.

"Come," Hakim told her, as Abdul took out his duty truncheon, the only weapon the three of them owned. As they all but ran toward the diamond's chamber along the many halls and corridors, the ominous feeling of foreboding turned into a state of near-panic. _Jonathan …_

"_Ya Salaam!_" The curator's voice echoed through the high chamber when he crossed the door, startling Evelyn, who had never heard him swear before. She rushed into the room after him and Abdul, and her blood froze in her veins when she caught sight of the crumpled figure of her brother lying on the floor in front of her. He looked very white, and deadly still.

"Jonathan! Oh my God, Jonathan, no … please don't be dead, please –" She dropped next to him, shaking, trying hard not to look at the small puddle of blood where his head lay. "Abdul!"

The chief attendant, who had apparently been checking on Tom, came near her. His face was pale.

"The other Englishman lives, but he's been knocked out cold properly. Is your brother –?"

"I don't know …," Evelyn choked, tears stinging her eyes. "I can't feel his pulse – my hands are shaking too much …"

Abdul looked at her, his eyes sympathetic, then put two fingers on Jonathan's neck. After a few seconds, he turned to Evelyn, smiling.

"He's alive, Mrs O'Connell. He has taken quite a nasty blow to the head, but he'll live through it."

Evelyn closed her eyes, breathing deeply, still shaking badly. She was aware that a few tears had rolled down her cheeks, but she didn't care – Abdul was tactful enough to avoid making any remarks about it. She would have been so much more embarrassed had Dr Hakim been there instead. He was a man of such self-control that she would have been ashamed of losing her head so totally in front of him, she who so often called on cool logic and sensible reasoning.

She wiped her cheeks on her sleeve, and looked around. Tommy was lying flat on his stomach a few feet away, sporting a large lump at the back of his head, and the curator seemed to be trying to revive him. Pieces of glass were scattered over the floor on a spot near the wall, and when her eyes followed the wall up to the window, she saw that it had been shattered.

Sure enough, the Diamond of Ahm Shere was no longer lying on its display shelf.

"Dr Hakim? Where is the assistant, Jamal?"

The curator came to stand near her, his face grim and set. "Gone. I don't believe he has been kidnapped – it is more likely that he was their accomplice. We were both right: they had a link inside, and they _did_ come for the diamond." His eyes flickered down to Jonathan, and back to her. "How does your brother fare?" he asked, in a softer voice.

Evelyn gently touched her brother's cheek, but as he showed no sign of waking, she said, her throat still tight, "Unconscious – somebody stunned him." Her eyes fell on the sceptre clenched in Jonathan's right hand. His fingers were clutched so tightly around it that she couldn't make him let go. She gave a sad smile, as it occurred to her that he probably hadn't had time to use this makeshift weapon.

"Abdul," said Dr Hakim after a little while, "fetch Ahmed and the others. We will need their help. And a doctor, too, just in case."

Her heart was starting to slow back to its normal rate. She let her fingers run very gently on Jonathan's cheek, looking at his white, still face. It seemed so wrong. It was hard to think he wasn't going to open his eyes, wink at her, and tease her for looking so scared.

Because she hadn't been frightened this badly in a long time. And it would have been so awful if … _Stop it right here, girl. No 'ifs'. Things are bad enough already …_

She regretted, now, having started that silly conversation about marriage earlier. It had seemed such a smart idea to take her brother's mind off her suspicions about Tom Ferguson, at the time – now, the matter sounded pretty stupid compared to what was surely to come, what with the Diamond being stolen and what could ensue …

Evelyn realised that, right now, she could use a little teasing to soothe her frazzled nerves. Even if – or rather, especially if – if it came from her brother.

* * *

They say your ears are the first to function when you wake up … Whatever bloody git said that was so bloody wrong. There was nothing Jonathan could hear, see, or feel, except for the overwhelming pain that started in his head and extended to the very tips of his fingers. When was the last time he'd got knocked out cold? Hell, he couldn't remember that – only the fact that the after-effects hadn't been much worse than a solid hangover.

Not much worse, my foot, as Evy would say.

_Evy …_

He was beginning to hear something, in fact. And he was certain that it was her voice that he was hearing. Unusually subdued, and he couldn't understand the words, but it was definitely his sister's voice.

What had happened? Oh yes, that blow to his head. Just thinking about it made him want to empty his large stock of curses … If he hadn't been so stupid as to turn round at the sound of the window breaking, he could have actually done something, instead of letting himself be knocked on the head and let the diamond be –

The diamond. _Bloody hell!!_

The shock of the realisation, if he had been awake, would have completely winded him – instead, in this state, the effect was that he could at last hear properly.

"I forbid you to say something like that! Mr Ferguson has just told you exactly what happened – there was no way they could have stopped them from getting the diamond!"

Evy's voice, again. And she sounded angry.

"I am not putting the blame on any of these gentlemen, but we are facing facts here – the Diamond of Ahm Shere has been taken, and we have no information as to who has it, or where, or why!"

All right, that was Hakim's voice, as close to genuine wrath as it could get. Well, he had every right to be, after all.

Jonathan worked hard on willing his eyes open. Of course, he failed. He felt as if the three pyramids of Giza were sitting on his lids to keep them shut. So, his valiant efforts only resulted in more pain. Ouch. _Dammit._

A damp cloth was pressed against his temple, and it felt so good that he was tempted, for a moment, to stop thinking at all and sink back into blissful unconsciousness. Then it occurred to him that the hand holding the cloth was probably Evy's, and that she might be worried about him. Now, in any other circumstances, he would have enjoyed being coddled by his sister, but right now, for some reason, didn't seem to be the ideal time. _Come on, old boy, you can do better than that_.

At the expense of another effort, he managed to open his eyes a tiny bit.

For all the fond memories he had about Egypt, there were a few annoying details that one simply couldn't push off. The sand, for one – nasty, sticky thing with the even nastier habit of getting everywhere, and that meant _everywhere_. Also, the heat, overwhelming, crushing from ten in the morning to ten in the evening. And the fact that such a heat had the tendency of making every kind of stench ten times stronger … That you just had to get used to.

But there was also the light. That beautiful, blinding, ever-present bloody light that was one of the reasons why Evy loved Egypt so much – you just don't get this sort of light in London, even in the middle of the month of August.

And Jonathan had just been painfully reminded of that particular detail.

"Jon! You're awake – it's about bloody time, mate!"

Jonathan winced at the boom of Tommy's voice. Of course, that meant that his friend was alive and well, and he was genuinely relieved to hear that, but … for Pete's sake, did he really have to shout?

He opened his eyes fully this time, and a blurry figure came hovering into view. Evy, by the look of it. "Oh, Jonathan, thank God … Are you all right? How do you feel? Do you know what time it is?"

"Do you really want to know, or is it just to check on the state of my head?" How he managed to crack that grin, he didn't know. But he immediately wished he hadn't when the headache soared suddenly. "I don't have a clue as to the time, but to answer your second – was that second? – question, I feel like I've just been dug up from my grave. Next time our mummy pal wakes up again I must ask him for tips."

His vision was clearing swiftly, and he had the pleasure of seeing Evy give a smile, albeit a rather shaky one. However, when the third occupant of the room spoke, there was nothing cheery in his voice.

"Do not jest about the Creature! I realise that the blow you received was severe, but we must return to graver matters. The Diamond has been taken away."

Jonathan had figured that out, but couldn't help a pang of remorse. He nodded glumly as Dr Hakim carried on, "As of now, nobody can tell for sure the purposes of the thieves, or who they are or who commanded the attack. Whoever they are, they are organised – I think I can safely venture the opinion that things were already set up three months ago, when I hired Jamal Hassan as assistant –"

"Whoa, hang on a sec," interrupted Jonathan, trying to sit up on his elbows and ignore his throbbing head, which wasn't as easy as he'd thought. "You mean Jamal, as in that young fellow who was in the chamber with us?"

"Seems so," answered Tommy grimly. He was sitting on a chair a few feet away, pressing a cloth to the back of his own head, and it was only then that Jonathan noticed that they were in the curator's office. His head had been lying on Evy's folded jacket, and when he turned to have a closer look, he saw the traces of blood on it. No wonder she'd looked relieved when he had opened his eyes. If it had been Evy lying there, and _her_ blood on that jacket, he would have been scared witless.

It took him a minute for the piece of information about the young assistant to sink in. Then he leaned back with a groan, "Why, that little bugger! If I'd known …"

"If _I_ had known, the diamond would still be there, protected and guarded by us," said Hakim, and his jaw was clenched. "I will inform my chieftain about it, and the Elders as well. We need a plan."

"Do you really think that this theft – that the thieves know what the Diamond could achieve and will be using it?" asked Evy, anxiety in her voice.

"I do not know. Maybe my chieftain will have another opinion, but mine is that we should wait for the next move. We don't know enough to do anything yet."

"How long before Ardeth Bay is informed, do you think?"

Jonathan's eyes darted between Evy and Hakim, and they were back on Evy as he inquired, "Erm, do I really need to ask what the guys could 'achieve' with that diamond if they used it?"

"Do you really wanna know?" deadpanned Tommy, and Jonathan was glad to hear that he had dropped this posh accent he'd used earlier to get into the curator's good books.

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do – if that can keep me from having my head split open next time." He looked at his sister, and something dawned on him as she stared back at him with an expression he knew only too well. "Oh, no. No. Not again – not the whole 'wipe out the world' thing – Evy, dear, it's getting a bit old, don't you think?" _And don't you think _we_'re getting a bit old for this, too?_

Evy sighed. "Honestly, Jonathan, you know that if I could prevent it from happening – but the fact is, we're involved one more time, and we can't just leave things like they are –"

"Sure, I know that. Don't ask me to agree with you, but I actually understand your point. But do you really think that Rick is going to agree with you as well? Last time he returned to Egypt was only because that blighter kidnapped Alex – that's what it took to drag him here. And now, the only reason for his being here is that he has your word – your word, Evy! – that nothing will happen. No funny business, no mummies, no Book, and_ no diamond_!" Jonathan impressed even himself by that speech. Of course, he was bothered about the diamond being stolen and all – but if the price for getting it back was his sister going out to risk her life again _and_ facing afterwards the legitimate wrath of the six-foot-tall heap of American muscles that was his brother-in-law … Then the hell with it. He didn't care tuppence about the sodding thing.

Evy looked appalled, but her brother didn't give her time to reply.

"You didn't get involved in anything, for cripes' sake! It's just been really bad luck that these guys chose just that very moment to steal that diamond –"

"Excuse me," said Hakim in a cold voice, "but I think that if someone was indeed 'involved' in this, it would be _you_, not your sister."

Jonathan and Evy both gaped at him, while Tommy began to laugh quietly at the two of them. A minute ticked off before Evy replied, her eyes wide, "Come on, Dr Hakim, you – you can't be serious! As my brother said, it's just mere ill luck that he was in the Diamond's chamber with Mr Ferguson and young Mr Hassan – you can't implicate him in this!"

"Oh, he can't 'implicate' me, but _you_'re dying to get involved, aren't you?" said Jonathan, sarcastic. "Typical."

"Just you keep out of it, Jonathan," snapped Evy. "And don't get up. The doctor said you should lie down for a moment."

"I feel perfectly fine, thank you very much –" Now this had to be his biggest lie in months. His head felt about to explode. "– And may I remind you of the subject? I mean your _not going_ off to some God forsaken pyramid on some 'let's save the world and die in the process' mission!"

He regretted the words the second they came out of his mouth, but there was no way to take them back. An eerie silence seemed to fill the room – Tommy, and even Hakim, were quiet, looking either at the two of them in turn, or at anything else but them. Evy was staring at him, looking both shocked and something else that he couldn't decipher. When she spoke at last, it was slowly and in a low voice, her eyes not leaving his.

"I think we should talk about this sometime, Jonathan."

"No way," he retorted, his voice just as low. "And don't change the subject."

"Far be it from me to interfere in your – family business," said the curator in an uncharacteristically subdued voice, "but I think the best idea would be for you to go back home, and then to England. Technically, your errand here is over."

"Oh, no, it isn't!" exclaimed Evy spontaneously. "We're here to get this diamond to England, and we _will_ get it to England! No, Jonathan, don't say anything," she said sharply, barely turning to him, as he opened his mouth. He shut it with a snap. "I already know your opinion about it."

"Evy, come on …" Jonathan put on his best 'big brother' voice, despite the fact that Evy was generally not fooled. "The diamond was stolen, all right. We could – I don't know, go back to England, wait for news, and eventually return if it's found again!"

But Evy's resolve seemed to be made of steel. She didn't accept one word against what she believed was right, and somehow, Jonathan admired this iron determination … Even if he was slowly starting to believe that all this was going down the drain.

And he had absolutely no idea as to how this was going to wrap up.

* * *

The muffled sound of a violent row was going on from the ground floor through the floorboards, and even if Jonathan couldn't make out the words, he didn't have to know the words to get the gist.

He had thought Rick would be mad. He had been wrong. Rick had gone completely and utterly livid when he found out about Evelyn's decision to stay in Egypt until the diamond was recovered and help, if help was needed. And now they were both going at it, in a very angry, so very uncharacteristic way. The walls were rattling from the shouting.

It was so wrong. After all they had been through, it was so wrong to see the two of them fighting so angrily.

There was a slight knock on the door, and a second later, a pair of alert blue eyes was peering across the room. "Uncle Jon? You're awake?"

"Yes, Alex, come in," Jonathan called, sitting up in bed and leaning against the pillows. He had crawled up in his room when Evy and him had arrived, and since Rick had come back just after diner he had abandoned every idea of sleeping. There had been some whispers, then the conversation had truly begun, and he had been staring at the ceiling for some time now.

Alex slipped into the room, and closed the door quietly behind him. He looked hesitant.

"Mum said I should let you rest, but … well, I can hear everything from my room, so I – I figured that from yours it couldn't be much worse …"

"No harm done. I couldn't sleep anyway. And I think I could use some of your excellent company."

Alex smiled, and came to sit on the carpet beside the bed, the way he would when something bothered him, or when he just wanted to chat. Then he appeared to change his mind and sat on the bed, his back against the bar at the foot of the bed. Jonathan handed him a pillow.

"Thanks," the boy said, putting the pillow behind him and propping his back up against it. He waited a few seconds, then looked at his uncle, a slightly worried expression on his face. "Uncle Jon, you – you look kinda pale, you know."

"That's nothing," he said with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine. I've been knocked on the head before – takes a hell of a lot more to kill me off."

Second smile from his nephew, a little more confident this time. "Yeah, I figured that out. For all the times Dad said he was gonna kill you …"

"Oh, he almost did, once or twice." Jonathan flashed a grin. "And your mum saved my neck, always. Well, not always – sometimes."

Alex gave a puzzled frown, "What d'you mean, 'sometimes'?"

"Well, remember what I told you about the first time I met your dad?"

"You mean, when you nicked the Key of Hamunaptra from his pocket?"

"Exactly. And you know of course how your mum came to that prison to see the man who owned the blasted thing?"

Alex rolled his eyes with a mock sigh, "The story's been in the family for ages, Uncle Jon – Mum and Dad have told me that hundreds of times." Then he sobered down, and looked at the door. "Now I'd almost like to hear that one from them again … It's funny, you know how they get – that lovey-dovey stuff and everything. Well, frankly, I prefer them kissing than fighting."

"So do I, son." Jonathan sighed, as the row raged on one floor lower. There was a moment's silence, after which Alex turned his head from the door back to his uncle.

"So, what was the point?"

"The point – oh yes, the point. Well, here's me and your mum, waltzing into that prison – the way it was _stinking_, you have no idea – and asking to see the American. Too bad we didn't have one of these fancy little cameras they have now. He looked like a caveman." Jonathan refrained from chuckling. "What did Evy say? Yes, 'Filthy, rude, and a complete scoundrel. Nothing to like there at all'."

"Mum said _that_ about Dad?" Alex's face hesitated between amazement and laughter.

"Oh, yes. That wild-looking man behind bars, and my Evy, not remotely afraid as she should have been, talking to him about that puzzle box. Of course, I'd said something or other about us being adventurers, or missionaries or some similar crap … And your dad, being the smart bloke I didn't know he was, knew me instantly – well, the chap who had picked his pocket – and punched me in the jaw. I can tell you, that hurt – a lot." Alex snorted. "When I came round, first thing I saw was that wild American kissing my sweet, innocent baby sister."

"Did that hurt more?" asked Alex, grinning. Jonathan gave him the deadpan look that was his nephew's favourite.

"The day you have a baby sister, son, you'll understand." A beat. "Then again, I think your dad's right hook was what hurt most. That man's fists are iron, I swear."

The noise of the fight seemed to be dying down, on the ground floor. Beside that, the relative silence was comfortable enough.

"I just don't understand Mum," Alex sighed after a little while. "Why does she want to stay? Because that's why they're fighting, isn't it?" There was no escape from telling the whole story to a boy who could look at you that way. "What happened, at the museum?"

Jonathan hesitated a little, then looked at Alex sternly, "Don't tell your mum I told you." Then he sighed. "Well, you know, that mate of mine, Tommy – he's sort of a specialist of antique stuff, like your mum, so I saw it as a good idea to go and see the diamond. Evy was very nice, talking to that dragon of a curator and all, and here we go. We got to the chamber, through some sort of maze of corridors, and two minutes later, this assistant, Jamal, ran into the room and told us there's been some funny business going on in another room.

"Him, Tommy and I, we stayed in the diamond's room for its protection – what are you laughing for, honestly? And a few minutes later, we started to hear some weird noise at the door. So, the three of us came in front of it, ready to defend the diamond –"

"And the bad guys burst in through the window!" Alex finished, laughing. Jonathan shook his head with a sheepish smile.

"Ah … not quite. Someone did break the window, so we turned to see what was going on – that's when the door opened with a bang, I didn't have time to turn back, and then nothing. Complete blackout. And the diamond was stolen." He winced. "Pretty pathetic, eh?"

To his surprise, Alex did not joke this time. He seemed to think it over, and looked back seriously at his uncle. "No, I don't think you're pathetic. I mean, you can be at times, but –" _Good Lord, if the boy is getting the same sense of humour as his father … what's the world coming to?_ "– But you're my uncle, and if some guy says you're pathetic I'll land him one on the nose." And he grinned.

Something swelled inside Jonathan's chest. He had never heard Alex say something like that to him, and he found himself very proud of being worthy of such praise. Especially since it came from his nephew, who was not prone to making such comments.

In the silence that followed, they both could hear something quite unexpected – complete silence. Occasionally broken by whispers, or bits of phrases, but it seemed that the row was over. For the moment.

Alex looked up at the ceiling with a sigh of relief. "You know, back at school, nobody has a mum who's an Egyptologist, and a dad who's fought mummies, and –" There he grinned at Jonathan "– an uncle who's a great bus driver … I wonder what the other parents fight over."

Jonathan had to smile at that. The boy had a point.

"Still …," he continued thoughtfully. "I wonder what it's like to live a normal life. Nobody believes me when I tell them about Imhotep, Lock-Nah and the rest."

"Nobody?"

"Well, not quite. There's Edgar – Edgar Jacobs, he's in my history class. He's a bit odd, with glasses, but he's fun to hang around with. And he knows his Egyptian history for sure."

"And his parents don't fight?"

"I don't know – we don't talk about things like that." Alex puffed up his chest slightly. "We're lads, you know how it goes."

"Yes, I know." Some things would never change, it seemed.

Alex gave a non-committal shrug, then seemed to hesitate a bit, before asking, his voice a little unsure, "Uncle Jon, my grandparents … You and Mum's mum and dad … Did they fight at all?"

Jonathan hadn't expected that. He blinked, then looked over at Alex uncertainly. "I don't know – maybe they did, but never in front of us. Our mother had quite the quick temper, Evy takes that after her, so I guess there must have been some times when they didn't agree …"

Alex's eyes didn't leave his face. "What were they like?"

Jonathan was silent for a little while, gathering his memories. It had been a long time since he had last talked about John and Gehane Carnahan. "Well … Father was tall, with a long face and nose – he had blue eyes, and a rare smile. I think I look a little like he did, except for the last part."

"Was he nice?"

"That was – that's not the best way to put it. He was always very calm, serious – had that noble air about him … That I know I didn't inherit from him. He could be very kind, whenever he wanted to, but most of the time he was very busy – we didn't see that much of him. But I always thought he was quite brave, venturing into those cold, dark pyramids to find out about long-dead guys."

He gave a smile at Alex, who was drinking in his words, his blue eyes wide in child-like curiosity. "Then there was our mum. Whenever Father spoke about mummies, funeral rites and fantastic discoveries for science, she told us about all the myths, the legends of Egypt. 'The Land of Living Sand', she called it. That was my favourite part – I didn't care much about the 'real stuff' Evy was so keen about. She taught me every part of Egyptian mythology that I know, the stories of all the gods and everything – I've forgotten half of it now, but some stuff's still fixed in my mind. She had a really vivid way to tell those stories, and our father wasn't quite pleased about it. Egypt was a serious matter, for him."

Alex gave a smile. He sat hugging his knees, his eyes shining. "Is that true, that Mum looks just like her? I've seen a picture of her on Mum's locket thing. She looked pretty."

"Yeah, she really was …" Jonathan stared into the distance for a few seconds, the beat of his heart changing ever so subtly. "She was … She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. And I don't say that just because she was my mum." As he went on, he hoped that his smile wasn't too shaky. Getting all mushy was not his forte at all – arguing and teasing was a little more like it for him. "She had – long, black hair, dark skin, bright eyes and a bright smile … It's true that Evy looks just like her. She really does. Of course, there're some differences, but – you get the gist." Alex nodded enthusiastically. "She was the one who'd sit at our bedside, when Evy and I used to sleep in the same room, and tell us stories. There was a war between Evy and me, to see who would stay awake longest. I made a point of winning, because I was the older brother – but she often beat me. You know your mum, when she's set her mind on something …"

Alex gave a lopsided smile, and Jonathan grinned back. Despite the slight apprehension and awkwardness he'd had at first about getting into all those old memories again, in the end, it felt rather good to share them with his nephew. Not to mention the fact that the boy was only too pleased to hear those stories.

Of course, he should have anticipated the question that went next. But a part of him was still hoping that Alex wouldn't ask. A part of him didn't want to answer that particular question.

"How did they die, Uncle Jon?"

Right on target.

Jonathan winced, and inwardly searched for a way to dodge that question. Soon he could see a couple of escapes, but for some reason, it seemed like a dirty trick to play on Alex right now.

"Your mum never told you?"

Alex squirmed slightly against the pillow, "Well, she never quite did – it's almost more difficult to get her to talk about my grandparents than you."

"To tell the truth, partner, I'm not quite keen on the subject."

"I noticed that, you know."

"So why don't you go ask your mum, instead?"

Alex gave an annoyed sigh, "Because, right now, I'd like to hear _you_ telling me about it!"

That took Jonathan aback. He had some difficulties understanding why on earth his word would be wanted more than Evy's. That wasn't the way things went, usually.

"All right, don't fret, I'll tell you … Right. It was the year just after the war, Evy had just turned eighteen, and I was more or less in the middle of my university years at Oxford. Our parents had been in Britain during the war, but now that it was over, they quickly followed Carter and Carnavon's party back to Egypt. They were planning to work on the Valley of the Kings, you know, they'd dug up a whole lot of pharaohs' mummies down there – something like thirty-five, or close enough. Father had been unsure about our mum going too, but she had said that Evy and I were not children anymore, they could leave us on our own for some time. So the two of us stayed in England, while the house was watched over by an old hag of a groundskeeper named Mrs Gladys Pemberton, and our parents were off to Egypt."

Jonathan stopped a few seconds for breath. Alex said nothing, but his eyes demanded the rest of the story. There was nothing Jonathan could refuse his nephew when he was looking at him like that.

"It was in the middle of the summer holidays – mother and father had promised to go home and spend the rest of the summer with us, so we were both waiting for news. I think Evy spent more hours waiting outside for the postman than I did – but we were both inside the house when news finally came. There was a thunderstorm raging on outside, and –" He gave a low chuckle, "– I can't say I was feeling quite easy. I didn't like storms that much."

"I don't, either," said Alex quietly. Jonathan was quite touched by that confession. Alex was scarcely one to admit a weakness. He nodded in thanks, and carried on.

"So, that night, Evy and I were sitting under the table in the dining room, playing at scaring each other stiff with ghosts or mummy stories … Don't ask, we used to do that a lot then. And then there was a knock at the door. I went to answer – big brother and all that, you know – and this fellow was standing on our doorstep with a gloomy face. I remember that he had a fez in his hand, a white suit, and dark eyes – must have been an aide of Carnavon's or Carter's, our parents used to know them well. Well, he gave me that big, thick envelope, planted a hand on my shoulder, and walked off like a ghost. And that's weird, because it was not raining. I should've continued to see him till he passed through the gate, with all the lightening going on."

Outside the window, the sun was quickly setting down on Egypt. The sky was lit with gold and fire, and in other circumstances, Jonathan would have found some interest in gazing out the window if he had nothing to do but wait for the opening of Cairo's bars. But he didn't feel in the mood tonight. Rather weird, that, all things considered.

"The letter was from Lord Carnavon himself, telling the two of us of a big landslide that had killed something like fifteen _quffi_ – workmen – and Gehane and John Carnahan. When I reached the end of the letter, I remember Evy calling me, and then nothing at all – total blank. I didn't faint or anything, your mum told me so, but the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the ground against the sofa of the living room, and Evy was curled up against me, crying with her head on my shoulder. I think we remained like that all through the night. It was a living nightmare."

Alex's blue eyes were sad, and his face was serious – one more time, almost too serious for his age. He sat silently, his chin resting on his knees, looking intently at his uncle. Jonathan turned his eyes away for a second, then came back to stare at the boy, hoping that they did not give away too much.

"You know, back at that – place – Ahm Shere – when you did what you did with that book … I'm sure your mum and dad must've told you that hundreds of times, so perhaps you'll be sick of hearing it again, but … I'm so bloody proud of you, Alex. I never could've done it myself – and I really wouldn't trust myself with any of these blooming books again. Last time I did, it was the Book of Amun-Ra, and I let it drop into a hole full of nasty-looking stuff. I think your mum might have got cravings for murder, at that point." Jonathan tried hard to put feeling into the smile he gave his nephew. Alex's expression was a weird one, halfway between a grin and fighting to keep a stiff upper lip.

"You never told me that."

"What, that stuff about the Book of Amun-Ra? How much of an idiot do you think I am?"

"No, I mean –" Alex rolled his eyes, and looked back up at Jonathan with a definite smile on his face, "Well, thanks. A lot. You know what I mean."

"Not at all, partner." Jonathan grinned and leaned back against the pillow. To tell the truth, he was starting to feel a mite tired, which he normally never did before two or three in the morning. But that was maybe due to his being knocked out earlier. These sorts of things had a tendency to spoil your evening plans.

That must have shown on his face, because Alex looked at him a little more carefully, narrowing his eyes. "D'you want me to leave?"

"Mmh? No, that's all right – stay if you want to. I'll warn you if I do fall asleep."

Actually, they still talked for a fairly long time, until the sky by the window was pitch black, and Jonathan really couldn't utter a word more. He fell asleep abruptly, while Alex put his head on the pillow, thinking about many things at once.

When Evy came in quietly to see if everything was all right, she smiled as she saw uncle and nephew each sharing an end of the bed, one sleeping soundly and the other dozing off. She called Rick for help and the two of them carried Alex to his own bedroom, then got him out of his clothes and into his pyjamas, and tenderly tucked him under the sheets.

Rick was still a little aloof with her, and she heartily hoped that tomorrow would bring a change to it. It was not as things should be. Whenever troubles had come, she always could rely on Rick's support. When the Bembridge scholars had decided she was too prone to triggering off catastrophes to run the British Museum properly after all, he had stood faithfully at her side. When her evil, mummy-like co-worker Miss Coywoodle had made her first few weeks in the Museum a living hell for no apparent reason, he had suggested locking her up in Imhotep's sarcophagus with a few flesh-eating scarabs, and when that had failed to cheer her up, to have a little chat with her. An 'O'Connell' chat, of course. And when they had received news from Alex's school that he had had an accident and had been taken to the hospital, her husband had been the one who had kept her from going insane from the lack of news. And the one to envelop her in a bear hug when it turned out that Alex had only had his arm broken after some foolish stunts with friends of his.

The possibility that he could not be there for this diamond thing left her with a cold sentiment of defeat. Of course, nothing like the Hamunaptra and Ahm Shere episodes was going to happen this time, but the thought of Rick not being on her side was painful.

As she changed into her nightdress, she thought about the diamond, and what else it could bring upon her family – having her brother hurt and her husband on bad terms with her was, in her opinion, enough ill luck.

How could things worsen still?

_Famous last words, old girl_, said a familiar voice in the back of her head as she fell asleep in turn.

* * *

You know, as someone whose mother tongue is not English, it took me a long time to figure out what the phrase 'Famous last words' meant or referred to. But now that I've got it, it's fun to use it :o)

Shout-out time:D

**_Julie:_** Thanks very much! Of course Jonathan's all right, I wouldn't hurt my favourite Englishman… much. Or would I? ;o) Lol, sorry, but I like to take risks. We'll see later if it pays :o)

**_Lilylynn:_** Hey, you're still there:o) Thanks! I couldn't post the 12 chapters at once, because it would mean far too much work for my beta-reader, who is a lovely person and whom I wouldn't burden with the load of chapters written so far. Besides, while the first 8 chapters have already been beta-read, there still were little things, so I can't imagine what it will be for chapters 9, 10, 11, and 12!

**_EggSalad:_** Oooh, your review did make my day! I absolutely adore your three stories, and to get close someday to the way you write humour is one of my goals in life. Thank you for the very nice comments! And yes, banter _is_ a wonderful thing, isn't it? Salt o' life :o)

**_L.C.:_** Thanks! I do have the plot planned out, it's something I recently learned to do, and I really should've thought on it sooner – I'm such a scatterbrain. So I took the resolution to write every single little idea down, so that in the end it formed something I could decently call a plot. Then there's also all the little subplots and whatnot… Writing is fun :D

And of course a major thanks to Laurie, who's a great beta and a great person to boot :o)

I hope that you're still there, and have not been driven away by the 'mushy stuff' in this chapter – I'm always a bit uncomfortable with writing scenes like this, so I do hope I pulled it off.

Next chapter … Ardeth Bay ;o)


	5. Market Place

**Author's Notes:** Yep, fifth chapter already. Great Scott, how time flies :o) Now, the title of this one is from an old song that I think was performed by Eddie Cochran, although I can't remember how it went. Thought the title fitted.

Now, this one not only does feature another little Evy/Rick scenes – I love writing scenes like these :o) – but also, as I promised, Ardeth ;o) And tell you what? He's been awfully difficult to write. But don't worry, he'll be back – can't have a proper Mummy story, in Egypt, complete with stolen ancient artefact and cursed place without our favourite Medjai, now, can we?

_Disclaimer:__ I do _not_ own any of the characters featuring in _The Mummy_ and/or _The Mummy Returns_ – maybe life would be easier if I did. Then again, maybe not – imagine trouble over cursed books or chests erupting in my quiet little flat in Bordeaux? That would be a riot. However, I made up the characters of Tom Ferguson, Fahad Hakim, Charles Hamilton and Jamal Hassan. Original characters are fun to create if they know their purpose, and even more fun to watch as they develop and grow out of control :o)_

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* * *

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**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 5: Market Place_**

The two days following were surprisingly uneventful, by the O'Connell standards in any case. Rick had quickly got over his initial fury, mollified by the absence of notable events – apart from the actual stealing of the diamond, and the fact that his brother-in-law avoided going out on nights for two days. That surprised Rick to no end, although, come to think of it, Jonathan really didn't seem up to it. The man did look like he had been visited by the mother of all hangovers, although Rick knew that wasn't the case. For once.

But of course, the real reason why his anger had died down so fast was Evelyn. The look on her face when she had gone to bed that night was something he had never seen before – sadness, and defeat. Evy never let herself be overcome by defeat, _never_. That had made him wonder silently as she slipped into their bed, not saying a word either. And it was the first thought that snuck back into his mind when he woke up the morning after.

"Honey? You awake?"

She slept with her back to him, having unconsciously huddled against his chest during the night. Although this felt very comfortable, Rick always preferred it when she faced him, so that he could watch her as she dreamed, and the funny faces she made then. It was also because of such things, which he couldn't live without, that Rick never regretted marrying her.

But there were some other things that he found he definitely could do without. Like her ill-placed, so very annoying sense of responsibility – if she could take the blame for every damn mummy rising in Egypt or elsewhere, she would do it. And the worst part was that she would always try to set things right, and this had a tendency to lead to catastrophe. Then, to offset it, there was her way of making him feel like a complete boor every time he didn't agree with her on a matter she thought important. As long as it wasn't life-threatening, he didn't care – but right now, he was feeling downright miserable because of the way his wife had looked before she went to bed. And despite the fact that he was still certain that the idea of staying longer in Egypt was the worst since the opening of the chest with the Bracelet of Anubis, he was well aware that there was nothing he wouldn't do to make Evy smile again.

His whisper was answered by a stir of the lovely round shoulders in front of him, and a muffled, sleepy voice, "Yes, dear … I'm awake."

He put a tender hand on her shoulder, and planted a few small kisses on her neck. "Evelyn – look, I'm sorry about yesterday." Even after all these years, even to _her_, he still had some issues apologising. And she knew it. He heard a slight change in her breathing. "I didn't mean what I said, I mean, I meant it then, but I didn't mean to mean it – I was just angry, and worried, is all."

Evy turned slightly, and he could partly see her face over her shoulder. Her eyes were shining in the half-light of the rising sun behind the shutters.

"I know you were worried. We've already gone through that before. But that doesn't excuse your words, Rick. And it certainly doesn't solve the problem."

"What problem are we talking about, exactly?" So many problems had appeared with the disappearance of that diamond, he didn't know which one to pick.

"You told me very clearly that you wouldn't be part of anything, this time. That I can understand. But –"

"No, please – the real problem is that I don't want to get involved in this, but _you_ do, quite obviously. And there's another problem: each time you get involved in something when you shouldn't, something happens and you're caught right in the middle of it. _That_ is what I don't want to happen."

To his amazement, Evy let out a little laugh, which shook her shoulders slightly. She rolled on her back and looked at him from the corner of her eye.

"What's so funny?"

"You. Jonathan said pretty much the same thing yesterday, almost down to the words – that he didn't want to get 'involved', but that _I_ clearly did. And he was very upset about that last part – even angry, I'd say."

"That shows your brother's starting to show some common sense. For once, I completely agree with him." And that was saying something. Maybe the guy was finally growing up, after all. "By the way … I didn't have time to ask yesterday – is he okay?"

This time, Evelyn turned to him, and he could see her entire face. It was a welcome sight, especially given the fact that she was still smiling slightly.

"He will be. But he had me thoroughly afraid for a little while." Her smile vanished, and she gazed into the space in front of her. When she looked back at him, her eyes were serious. "Believe me, darling, I'm not doing it for the sake of some trifling notion of fun. The Bracelet, the Sceptre – every object linked to Ahm Shere caused pain to the world, and to us in particular, and I have a feeling that this diamond might not be an exception to the rule. I want to see it safe, because I want to see you safe. You, Alex, Jonathan – you're my only family, and I can't bear to think about any of you getting hurt."

Rick listened silently. Voiced that way, her motives made complete sense. His fury of yesterday had been fuelled by the fear he had of losing Evy or Alex again, and the need he felt to protect his family. Evy had had exactly the same reaction, only taking different decisions, in her own true way. And while such decisions were annoying as hell, they were also understandable.

"That's very thoughtful of you, sweetheart, I appreciate that," he sighed with a smile to signal his surrender. "But I'd like to point out to you that you were the one who died last time. So allow me to feel a little unsure about all this."

Her eyes grew sadder, and she snuggled against him. He held her back, taking the opportunity to caress the soft skin of her arms, immensely glad that the fight was over.

"So … does that mean you will still be with me?"

"Frankly, Evy –" Rick slightly shook his head, incredulous, "I can't believe you are asking me that. Of course I will – I always will. That's what this ring stands for, doesn't it? I love you, and I'll always be with you … Even if that means putting up with your – what'd Jonathan say the other day? Those Englishmen, they do have a knack for understatements … '_peculiarities_.' Yeah, that's it."

He grinned at her, and she gave a broad smile. Their faces were so close that their foreheads were almost touching – from there he could look properly at her features and her bright eyes, count the few freckles on her nose, and see the small lines that had begun to creep at the corners of her eyes. Rick found himself liking those lines. Each one meant something they had gone through together, a moment they had lived together, a laugh or a worry they had shared. And he didn't mind lines on his own face, as long as they mirrored his wife's. He wanted to live with her, and that also meant growing old with her.

And it really couldn't hurt if she was still kissing like that in twenty years, he thought as their lips touched.

Mmh … Definitely not.

* * *

"You really have no idea what you'll give Mum for her birthday, have you?"

Alex stopped in his tracks and squinted up at his uncle with a frown. Even at this hour in the morning, the sunlight made his eyes ache slightly whenever he looked up from his shoes.

Uncle Jon squinted back, his eyes reduced to a pair of blue slits. "I'll have you know that I've been thoroughly looking for a gift for quite some time. Really. I just seem to be unable to find the perfect present, that's all."

Alex waited, feeling that something was still to come.

"Having said that, I remain open to suggestions."

"I knew it." Alex rolled his eyes. "You don't have a clue."

"I do!" retorted Jonathan indignantly.

"You don't."

"I do, too!"

"You don't!"

"I do!"

"You don't!"

"I do!"

"You don't!"

"I don't!"

"You do!" Alex closed his mouth with a snap just after uttering the last syllable, realising that he'd been had. He glared at his uncle, who was chuckling discreetly.

"That wasn't playing fair, Uncle Jon."

"You're right, partner," Jonathan said with a laugh. "Next time I'll be more of a sport."

Alex nodded his approval seriously, and straightened the topee on his head, wishing that it was not so big – it kept sliding off, and it was really annoying. It was nine in the morning, and uncle and nephew had snuck out to the bazaar, leaving a note to Mum and Dad on the kitchen table. His parents had not come out of their room yet. Uncle Jon had said something about the two of them having some making up to do, and as Alex realised that it would involve a lot of kissing, hugging and other dubious stuff, he'd been more than happy to go outside and help his uncle find a fitting present for Mum.

They had just arrived at the bazaar: a large esplanade a little outside the centre of the city with ground of hard-packed earth, where quite a number of tents had been pitched, some more crookedly than others. Behind many, always nearby, the owners' mules or camels were peacefully ruminating on what they could – those who could afford a shaded spot for their beasts, let alone some extra fresh food were lucky, and rare.

Alex always liked bazaars, Cairo's bazaar in particular, with all its bright colours, strong smells, loud noises, and never-ending movements. The robes of men in coloured djellabas and women with stern eyes brushed past him as he let his eyes wander endlessly, reminding him of his dislike of still walking at belt-level. But that familiar feeling didn't alter the pleasure of being there. There was so much to see at once, and hear, and feel.

"Want some sound advice, Alex?" said Uncle Jon, his long hand clutching his nephew's. "Keep an eye out for swindlers. There are so many unscrupulous characters in this world, you may not know them before they diddle you, you mark my words."

The boy refrained from observing slyly that there had been some times when his uncle had not shown many qualms over a few shady deeds of his own – after all, Jonathan had been the one who had taught Alex how to open a door without a key, something Mum never needed to know – and tightened his hand around the few English coins he had in the pocket of his shorts. It wasn't much, but it was his, and Mum would surely not like it if he lost his money.

"Hey! What d'you think of those?" Jonathan was pointing to a display of golden trinkets of faux Ancient Egyptian style. Alex shook his head.

"That's a fake, Uncle Jon. She won't like it."

"I know that's a fake, I mean this sort of style could do the trick," grumbled Jonathan, obviously offended that his own nephew didn't believe him capable of telling a false treasure from a genuine one – Alex was perfectly aware of his uncle's knowledge when it came to gold. But it was fun to tease him. He fell for it every time, just like Mum when Dad teased her.

"Why don't you buy her a dress or something? She did like the last one you gave her."

Jonathan shrugged. "Your dad's already offering her a new set of 'adventurer's' clothes – the kind she likes to wear here, with trousers and stuff."

Alex smirked.

"Don't you like it when she wears trousers then?"

Another non-committal shrug as a single brown eyebrow shot up.

"It's not that I don't like it – well, I happen to find it rather ugly, but as long as she's comfortable … Evy's always been pigheaded when it came to her appearance. Have you seen pictures of her before she met your dad?"

Oh, yes he had. It was hard to think that his mum had once looked like that, a young girl with old, severe clothes, thick glasses, tight bun, and such a bossy air about her. She still used glasses to read, but much thinner than they had been, and she let her hair down most of the time. And the skirts she wore now were nothing like the long, stiff-looking ones she used to wear.

"Yeah. She looked like Mrs Blimp – sorry, Mrs Blinppiditch, my old teacher."

"I suppose that's saying a lot." It was Jonathan's turn to smirk. "What I mean is that your mum doesn't care a lot about clothes and whatnot, and it's always been like that – she'd never hear a single word about it. When you were on your way – not born yet – Rick and I talked her into wearing light dresses, and I think your dad enjoyed that a lot. But as soon as she was back in Egypt with her hammers and chisels, she found out that trousers were more practical than dresses. Which is, I'm sure, not untrue."

Alex, who only wore long trousers on Sundays and important occasions, did not fully agree with him. Shorts were indeed quite handy here in Egypt, more so than longer ones; if he wanted to climb up a wall or a tree, his mum would surely be more inclined to punish him if any harm came to the precious trousers. He preferred by far her fussing over a pair of scraped knees than ruined trouser legs.

Then again, the thought of his mum in short trousers made him cringe inwardly. What would the lads say, at school? They always said that his mum was quite pretty – as much for a girl as for a mum – but some already snickered when she came to get him at the gates, after school, and fussed over him like he was still a little kid. This sort of thing could ruin a lad's reputation if he was not careful. Of course he was glad whenever he saw her, especially after what happened at Ahm Shere, but … sometimes he wished she could just leave him alone.

Problem was, this kind of thinking often bothered him. You couldn't go thinking that way about your mum, could you?

"Don't ask me, anyway – I haven't tried on dresses and I certainly would never do such a thing … Ugh."

Alex chuckled. "Ask Ardeth Bay, then – he's the only guy I know who wears something close enough."

"Now look here, you –" Uncle Jon looked as if he wanted to scold him, but couldn't quite do it because of the smile he was trying to hide. He did that very often. "Don't go joking about Medjai clothes, especially around him – they can be a little touchy about some stuff – and besides, if someone deserves respect, it's him. The number of times that bloke saved our necks …"

"I didn't mean to be disrespectful, honest!" said Alex, who had had a great admiration for the Medjai chieftain ever since he first saw him, years and years ago on his first trip to Egypt. Even if the man's sense of humour seemed to appear just as often as Uncle Jon's conscience did. "And don't worry, I'm not daft enough to joke about that in front of him."

"I believe the Western phrase for this sort of situation is, 'Speak of the devil' …," said a quiet voice with an Eastern lilt somewhere near Jonathan. Alex's uncle gave a start, and turned wide eyes at the dark-clad shadow who had seemed to appear out of thin air just beside him. Ardeth Bay was standing there, wearing a dark brown cloak over his black and silver Medjai robes. His bright eyes were smiling as he lowered his hood.

"I say," stammered Jonathan, one hand clutching his heart, "it's jolly good to see you, Ardeth, old boy, but I'm getting a tad old for this sort of scare."

"A pleasure to see you too, my friend," Ardeth laughed quietly, shaking Uncle Jon's hand as colour crept back up to the latter's face. Then he gave a nod to Alex, and the boy could have sworn that the dark eyes were twinkling. "Good day, Alex O'Connell. Do not worry about offending me with jokes – I know you have good intentions. And a little humour at times cannot hurt."

Okay. Point taken. It wasn't the first time Alex thought the strange man could read minds.

"Hi, Ardeth," he said with a grin, looking up and trying not to squint too much. _Bloody light_. "You're here for the diamond, aren't you?"

Ardeth raised his black eyebrows, "I see that the habit of getting straight to the point has passed on to the next generation in the O'Connell family." Alex felt his cheeks grow warmer in spite of himself. If there was a person in the world who could, with a single glance, put him in his place, make sure he stayed there for a couple of seconds, _and_ manage to not make him feel low in the meanwhile, it was this man. Hell, he sure was imposing enough for that.

"Yes, I am indeed heading for the museum – Dr Fahad Hakim sent for me, and I set off as soon as I received the message."

"That was pretty fast," commented Jonathan with a low whistle as they walked a little away from the crowd of the bazaar. Ardeth nodded.

"In times of need, I have Neit to help me."

Something dawned on Alex's uncle's face. "Oh – like Horus?"

"C'mon, Uncle Jon, Neit's nothing to do with Horus in Egyptian Mythology!" Alex protested, unwilling to believe that Jonathan had forgotten that part. He had spent whole nights talking about Egyptian legends with his uncle when he couldn't sleep.

"You are mistaken, young O'Connell," said Ardeth. "Your uncle was speaking of a falcon friend of mine who once was of great help to me, sending word to the Twelve Tribes before the Rising of the Army of Anubis two years ago. I was quite grieved when he was killed over the Oasis of Ahm Shere."

"Oh – sorry." Alex felt uncomfortable. Not only because of his mistake, but also because of something that had seemed, for a split second, to cloud over the dark-skinned face. Even if all had been set up ages before it happened, as his mum had told him, it still seemed that a lot of people had got hurt in a direct consequence of his putting on the Bracelet. 'No harm ever came from putting on a bracelet', his mum would say, according to Dad. Well, it _had_ seemed like a good idea at the time.

"No harm done, Alexander," said Ardeth, and Alex was somewhat relieved to see that his eyes were still smiling. Although he still didn't like it at all when people called him by his full name, even if it was Ardeth, who always called Mum 'Evelyn', not 'Evy' like Dad and his uncle Jon. "Neit is indeed a falcon – she's fast, and quite clever, which is why Fahad sends her for long distance messages. And he's explained everything that happened yesterday."

Alex saw the dark eyes flicker to the light bandage that showed slightly under Jonathan's hat. Mum had insisted that he wore it for twenty-four hours, and he had reluctantly conceded.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, head hard as a rock – blighter banged with all his might, though. Thanks for the concern," Jonathan said with a smile. Then he winced. "Crikey, now I think of it … As my ever so subtle brother-in-law once put it, 'You're here, bad guys are here' … There's this ominous-looking thing going on with that blasted diamond … All we need now is Evy getting kidnapped, God forbid –"

"And another raising of the Creature happens?" ended Ardeth, one black eyebrow raised. The thought of someone's sense of humour going on a holiday crossed Alex's mind, and he clung to this idea to avoid thinking about the cold, empty eyes of Imhotep. "Hamunaptra has remained quiet ever since Hafez's men stopped digging – we found the Book of the Living there, and we keep it under close watch, night and day. As for the Creature itself … lucky would be the one who could manage to find its body under the sands of Ahm Shere. Besides, according to what Evelyn and O'Connell told me, it is very unlikely that he would even be willing to be raised a third time. His love abandoned him."

"You know, I still have trouble believing that he was as hurt as he looked back then," Uncle Jon said, looking thoughtful. "I actually felt sorry for the bloke, despite the whole Evil Mummy Enemy thing. If he still had a heart at that point, I bet we all could've heard it shatter into little pieces."

"Despite all the ancient resentment of my people against the Creature, I probably would have felt pity for him as well, had I been there," Ardeth said, not departing from his quiet smile. "Feeling pity for an enemy can be thought of as a weakness by some, but it is one of our prerogatives as human beings."

For all the respect he had for the serious Medjai leader, Alex could not understand this knack of his for long, intricate sentences that sounded like riddles. And it was a little bit frustrating to never be sure whether these were riddles or not. The only sign was the grin Ardeth would give afterwards, brief but always striking with a flash of white teeth against dark skin.

The grin came, although slightly subdued. "Nothing has been outlined yet, so you do not have to worry," said the Medjai, before looking intently at Jonathan and Alex in turn. "All I ask from you and your family is to keep yourselves out of this as much as possible. I do not doubt that you would only be trying to help, but I don't think that it would be a good idea, much as I value your aid and your friendship."

"Go tell that to Mum," muttered Alex, shuffling on a little patch of earth. Ardeth's eyes flashed to him.

"Your mother is known as a person who'll do whatever she thinks is right," he said seriously, "and even if that has led her into trouble many a time, it is still something to respect." Then the hint of a smile flickered over his face, "Although I must say that, despite all her good intentions, Evelyn O'Connell is also known for her stubbornness and her tendency of getting where she shouldn't."

"Amen to that, my friend!" Uncle Jon said with a wide grin, his blue eyes twinkling. "You seldom spoke a truer truth."

The three of them shared a knowing smile. Then Ardeth looked around, before replacing the hood of his brown cloak over his head. His eyes, almost hidden in shadow, came to rest on Jonathan, and Alex in turn.

"Be sure to send my regards to Evelyn and O'Connell," he said. "I don't know whether I will be able to greet them myself."

"Oh, come on, old chap, you're always welcome to drop by anytime," protested Uncle Jon heartily.

"Yeah," added Alex. "It'd be smashing if you could come over some time. Really swell."

Ardeth raised a quizzical eyebrow. "I suppose that means you'd be happy to see me?"

Alex chose to take that seriously. "Of course, honestly –" The crooked grin told him that someone's sense of humour was back from holiday. Ardeth's quiet chuckle echoed his.

"I may be seeing you in the future, then. Till then, good day!"

And he was gone. Only one second, and he had vanished into the crowd, his cloak blending perfectly.

"Do you know," Jonathan said, squinting in the sun before lowering his eyes to his nephew, "I think Ardeth might enjoy being the dark and mysterious figure a little too much for his own good."

"Probably," answered Alex, as he felt a grin pull at the corner of his mouth. "But he does a damn great job of it. So who cares?"

That elicited a small laugh from his uncle Jon, who grinned down. "Let it be remembered that you were the voice of reason on this one, son."

They were both laughing as they returned to the crowd of the bazaar. However, after a little while spent at looking at tents where they sold elaborate tea sets, narghiles, and loads of other jewellery, they had returned to arguing about Alex's mum's birthday.

"I only say you're being negative about all this – there, look, maybe a good book will do nicely!"

They had just come across a display of a few old-looking books, and Alex had to admit that Jonathan was right. His mum loved books, especially old ones, and among these old ones she was mad about everything that had anything to do with Egypt.

They made for the table where the books lay, but Alex was growing more and more sceptical about it – there were few books he knew of which Mum didn't have already. Still, it might be worth the try.

However, his hopes slowly diminished as the two browsed over the titles on the tattered covers, recognising most of the books for having seen them somewhere, either in the mansion – as Alex liked to call it – or their smaller house in Cairo.

"Tough luck," sighed Uncle Jon as he put down yet another book, this one with the words _Cult of Cats in the XII__th__ Dynasty_ embossed in gold on the cover. "Seems that my dear sister owns every damn book out there about Egypt …"

"Jon? 'That you?"

Jonathan turned, and Alex peered around his uncle to see Tom Ferguson standing near the table, a smile on his broad face.

"Hullo, Tommy," said Jonathan, looking equally pleased. "Looking for something in particular?"

"Nah, not really." Tom shook his sandy-coloured head. "I come to this tent every day to see if there's somethin' new out – I've just got this thing for old books, as I've told you the other day." He leant over the table to greet the owner of the tent, who seemed to know him; they exchanged a few words in Arabic, which Alex didn't catch all of, although he did understand that Tom was asking for new acquisitions. He got a negative answer, and nodded his thanks, looking disappointed; then he turned back to Jonathan.

"Too bad … Been a couple of days since they got something new. What about you? What're you doing here?"

"Playing at knight of the Quest for the Ultimate Birthday Present," deadpanned Uncle Jon despondently, making his nephew chortle. "Evy's birthday's in a week and a half, and I still haven't got anything to give her."

"Starting to get a little panicked there, are ya?" Tom gave a laugh. "I know the feeling. You should see the rush I get into every year when it's Lisa's birthday."

"Lisa's your sister?" asked Alex. If it was, then he was definitely not keen on having a little sister some day. He had enough trouble managing to scrape together for presents for three people at Christmases and birthdays.

Tom smiled, "No, Elizabeth's me wife."

"Ah – sorry, my mistake." But that didn't make Alex change his mind about little sisters.

"Oh – before I forget!" exclaimed Tommy, switching subjects with an easiness that made Alex wonder. "Good thing I bumped into you now, 'cause Hamilton'd like to see you about what happened yesterday – for the report, you know. I was going to write to you, but since you're here … Tomorrow at four."

"Hamilton? Your boss?" Jonathan frowned. "Why's that? Isn't your report enough?"

Tommy shrugged, "That's the rule of the Department – gather information from as many sources as possible. You must've noticed that with the file I lent you … My superiors are maniacs whenever rules are concerned."

There was a short silence, then Tommy gave a nod toward Jonathan's head, and asked rather uncomfortably, "Speaking of yesterday … Does it still hurt?"

Jonathan rolled his eyes, "What are you people making such a fuss for, honestly? I got coshed on the head, so what? I'm quite all right, thank you." Then he stopped, and looked at Tommy, something softening slightly on his face, "What about you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," said Tommy with a wave of his hand. "For once I was the luckiest for something – you got the worst knock." He was silent for a second, and Alex found that he could relate to the guy's hesitation. He always felt slightly uneasy himself when dealing with concern for someone that wasn't his mum – it was so much easier to be Mum's little boy than a big, tough guy, even if it was much more embarrassing … Of course, he preferred to be Dad's big guy. Then again, Dad had never been a mum's little boy. That was something Alex just couldn't imagine, a boy without a mum.

At least, he had never come to imagine it before the events at Ahm Shere two years ago. Afterwards, he'd wondered sometimes what his life would've been without his mum, and he had always kept this train of thought brief. As Ardeth had said at some point, while the memories of the past were a precious thing, it did no good to a man to dwell upon them. Yes, it had to be something along those lines.

"Not to insist or anything, but – I'm serious, mate, you really got me scared back there. When I came round, I saw your sister bent over you, your head was bleedin' … Believe me, you did look dead."

For once, Alex was glad he was not eye-level with the adults. It would have been difficult not to look too conspicuous as he felt his cheeks lose their colour, and his stomach do a somersault. While worry for Mum and Dad as they ventured into those creepy pyramids full of traps had become such a familiar feeling that he was almost used to it – almost –, he had never had an opportunity to think that someday, his uncle might not be there. Well, not quite: for a few seconds, down in the pyramid, he'd feared that his mum would be too late to stop that witch Anck-su-namun as her arm came down to stab Jonathan. It would've been awful if his uncle died just as his mum came back. As some old but funny Irish bloke had once said, losing one family member was a tragedy. Losing two was carelessness.

Jonathan looked slightly uncomfortable for a second, then his old grin was back on his face as he quipped, "Well, considering Evy's propensity to wake up the dead, I wouldn't have stayed that way for long, would I? Besides, I can recall some occurrences when the two of us ended looking more dead than alive. Let me think, there was this incident with the girls' college …"

Puzzled but highly interested, Alex looked from Uncle Jon to Tommy, whose brown eyes, which had seemed a little dimmed during these last minutes, lit up suddenly. "Oh, yeah – I remember. I reckon I was the one to blame for this … But _you_ chatted up the wrong girl in the King's Arms, and we ended up having to hide for two days after that."

All right. This was getting more and more interesting, and Alex made a mental note to ask his uncle about it later. He also wondered briefly at Jonathan's disconcerting ability for changing subjects. All trace of uneasiness had disappeared, and the two men wore an identical grin on their faces.

"Well, it's good to see you're all right – that this blow on your head didn't erase fond school memories," said Tommy with a lopsided smile that Uncle Jon returned. "I hope that nobody'll get hurt next time we're in the same room."

Alex couldn't help but grin. That was something Mum used to say – with a slight change – the first few times she left him in Jonathan's care for an entire evening. She seemed to think that, as soon as she left them together without her to watch over, disaster would sweep down on the house faster than you could say 'catastrophe'. _'And I hope that nobody will be hurt next time I enter the room!'_ How many times had he heard it?

"And it's equally good to see that your skull is as hard as it once was," retorted Jonathan in the same tone of voice. "So – tomorrow at four, then?"

"Yeah, at my office. And don't be late!" Tommy said in a mock stern tone, pointing a warning finger at him. "Hamilton can be kind of nice when he wants to, but he's very strict about punctuality, and you don't want to be near him when he's in a bad mood."

"I'll keep that in mind, don't worry."

"See ya, then!"

"Bye!"

Tommy shook Uncle Jon's hand, gently clapped Alex's shoulder and left with a last grin. Unlike Ardeth, who had seemed to merge into the landscape in the twinkling of an eye, it was a little while before his broad frame disappeared from sight.

"Uncle Jon …" said Alex after a few seconds as a thought crossed his mind. "What _did_ happen at that girls' college?"

Blue eyes looked down at him, twinkling, "I think that, if I ever told you, and your dad happened to hear about it, he'd kill me on the spot and put my head in a frame on the wall."

Alex was silent for a moment, long enough to get the mental picture right; then he grinned up at Jonathan. "And what about this – 'incident' in the King's Arms? You could tell me about that, couldn't you?"

Jonathan scratched the back of his neck and ran his hand through his hair, before grinning sheepishly. "If I did, then your dad would have to dig me up, so that he would kill me again. Oh, and I'm sure your mum would have a hand in this as well."

_Whoa_. It sounded definitely worth it. "That bad, eh?"

"Maybe when you're a little older. Just a little." It really had to be serious, because Alex knew that his uncle was aware of his dislike for such excuses. To his credit, he didn't use them very often.

"But you _will_ tell me some day, right, Uncle Jon?" he asked earnestly. Jonathan grinned.

"Right-o, partner. Promise I will. Now let's get a present for your mum, shall we?"

Happy to have his uncle's promise, Alex followed him into the coloured crowd of robes and suits, still clinging to his hand.

_Not a piece of jewellery, not a dress, not a book …_ Maybe a camel would do the trick, after all.

* * *

How would you like a camel for your birthday, my friends? :D

Before I forget, a 'topee' is a sort of pith helmet. I don't know how it is, but in my dictionary that was the translation for the French equivalent of 'pith helmet'… go figure :o) And for those who have been a little lost at the sentence 'The two days following were surprisingly uneventful' and then jumping back to the morning after the burglary at the museum… This was in fact my first – and rather lame, I must admit – attempt at something called 'prolepsis' in my _Handbook of Literary Terms_, which is sort of like the opposite of a flash-back (and a flash-back is an 'analepsis'. Sounds almost like an insult, this one :o) Oh, and I remember that one because not so long ago, we were forced to learn all the weird terms by heart.

Aaaaaaannd … Shouts-out :o)

**_LaurieM:_** Thanks, sweetie :o) And you know what I think of you! You're a terrific person, and I'm very glad you're my beta-reader. Thanks for dropping by :o

**_Lilylynn:_** Thanks! I hope you enjoyed this one – and especially Ardeth :o) I update as quickly as I can; hopefully it won't turn out like my Harry Potter story that I've put on hold – but no, it won't, I'm still working on the 12th chapter. Don't worry!

**_Silent Train Conductor:_** Thanks very much for the comment! :o)

**_EggSalad:_** So, is that soon enough? :P Ooh boy, your review had me practically jump off my chair and do a happy dance. Which would've been fine if I hadn't been in the library at that moment (I spend most of my free time there, and most of the time I'm on the Net :o) So I just beamed until the sun went down. Thank you!! :o) I absolutely love writing Alex and Jon. Besides the fact that they're really on the same wavelength for a number of things, they both have a sharp tongue, but really love each other like two friends would. And their interaction in the film is cute and funny – did you notice in TMR, after Evy's been kidnapped and when Rick and Ardeth 'talk' like two calm, respectable gentlemen (yeah right, on Rick's behalf! :P ), Jon has his hand on Alex's shoulder, in case the boy needed reassuring. Sweet, eh? :o)

As for my HP stories… Well, I really mean to continue the 11-chapter-long one, but not right now. I'm too much on a Mummy kick too :o) and this year'll be a LOT of work – I got a thesis to do and exams and stuff. But we'll see when I post the very last chapter of this one :o

**_eris:_** See? I didn't leave you hanging there for too long :o) That will be for later chapters, with nice 'n juicy cliffies… Oops. Did I give it away? ;o)

**_Toni Isis:_** Thanks! :o) And a bigger thank you for your offer, which I unfortunately must refuse, as I said the other day. But the intention's there, and that was very nice of you. Now I hope you enjoyed this chapter :o)

And to the lurkers, I hope you liked it too – the chapter, of course, not the notes. Don't mind that, I always did talk too much :o


	6. I've Had my Moments

**Author's Notes:** Hi, everybody! How're you doing? My wonderful beta-reader has just sent me back the 6th chapter, so I thought I'd be nice and post it :o) Thanks, sweetie! Once again, a little cliffhanger at the end… and I hope that you lot won't be mad at me (much!).

_Little _Disclaimer:_ I own nothing but a few original characters, and the thrill I get when I come to writing something good. And for once, there's an action scene in this chapter that I'm really proud of. So please, Universal, don't sue me – I'm saving money for the 12 DVDs of _The Lord of the Rings_, so I'm rather short of money right now :D_

The title comes from a rather fast instrumental song by Django Reinhardt. And kudoes to whomsoever spots the reference to _The Blues Brothers_ (yes, you read right!) in this chapter. Hope you like! :o)

* * *

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 6: I've Had My Moments_**

There were many ways to begin an interview with a British Consulate official. One of them could be, "Good afternoon to you, sir, what it is that you want from me?" Another one – depending upon your degree of familiarity with the person you addressed, of course – would be, "Hello, old boy – heard you wanted a word!" But "Sorry I'm late, I've been devoured by a wild camel …" was definitely not the smartest option.

Yet it was one that Jonathan was starting to consider seriously as the hairy – could he call it a snout, or a muzzle? – thing just kept sending its foul breath into his face. Another minute and viscous drool was going to drip down on him … He resisted the urge to yelp for someone to get him the hell out of here. Then again, if he did, that beast would surely not react nicely.

Eurgh.

Nasty, smelly bugger.

"I am so very sorry, sir," he heard the girl say, and from the corner of his eye he saw her pulling on the camel's bit with all her might. "He's normally very calm – my father trained him well, I think he was only trying to play …"

"That's all right," Jonathan managed to say, trying to remain calm and sound offhand, however hard it was when you were being pinned to the earth by a smelly camel's snout – muzzle – thing. "Stuff like this has happened before. I'm not quite fond of these beasts, and it appears it's mutual."

Trying to play … Right. He had just been walking down the street to the British Consulate, and as this blasted camel came past him, it had escaped its owner's grasp and nuzzled him till he fell over. Not content with this victory, it had showed big chunks of yellow teeth each time Jonathan made an attempt to get up, and the Englishman found himself pinned to the ground, unable to move, as the Egyptian girl the camel belonged to pulled and pulled at the animal's reins, all the while apologising profusely.

Finally, a sympathetic fellow passing by came to lend the girl a hand with the reluctant beast, and Jonathan was soon on his feet, dusting himself off energetically. Close to, the girl looked near tears.

"Really, sir, I'm so sorry – can I help you with anything? Just …"

"Be reassured, Miss, everything's fine … I just hope that your camel doesn't throw itself at everyone else in the street." The girl looked upset enough, and he didn't have the heart to get angry; so he spoke in a good-natured voice, and the blush on the girl's dark cheeks took off the last remnants of his anger. Besides, it had been mainly directed at the camel, which now stood a few feet away, peacefully munching on something the good Samaritan had stuffed into its mouth as a distraction.

The girl slowly pushed her tangled hair out of her face and he had the pleasure of seeing a tiny smile – timid, still a bit fearful, but a smile all the same. "Thank you, Khawaga. Djem has indeed done that sometimes – it is his way to tell people he likes them. But those he had annoyed were generally … quite angry at us."

"Well, although I'm flattered, I would certainly like – Djem – best if he stayed away from me," answered Jonathan with a smile, finishing checking his clothes for traces of dust that would not do in front of Tommy's boss. Then something the girl had said made him raise an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'angry at us'?"

"I am responsible for my camel's behaviour," said the girl very simply. "So if Djem misbehaves, I am the one to blame. The last person he angered – a European woman – slapped me."

That took Jonathan aback. "Why, she had no right to do that at all – that's not fair! We're not in the Middle Ages anymore, for cripes' sake."

The girl seemed very surprised at his statement. Her dark eyes widened as she looked at him curiously. The Englishman would have laughed had he not known better.

"Anyway," he said, noticing that time was running – good thing he had left home early! –, "I'm sorry to cut off, but I have an appointment I'd be sorry to miss. Have a good day, and don't worry about your Djem – there must be some camel-loving people out there who'll love to be pinned to the ground!" That said with a smile, to avoid misunderstandings.

"A good day to you as well, Khawaga," said the girl in her lilting, fluty voice. "May Serpet smile upon you!"

As Jonathan walked away, quickening his pace to make up for lost time, the Egyptian girl's last words seemed to hang in the air for a few seconds. They puzzled him. She had called him 'Khawaga', a term generally used to show great respect for a person, and had called upon the goddess Serpet for her blessings – it had been a long time since he had heard someone call the star Sirius by its Ancient Egyptian name, and it was even more startling coming from this barefooted, skinny girl who didn't look more than fifteen.

Undoubtedly, Egypt had been, and would always remain a _very_ strange place, Jonathan mused as he came near the British Consulate, the tune of a rather fast Django Reinhardt song making its way round his mind.

He had yet to remember its title when he knocked on Tommy's office door.

"C'min!"

"Don't you ever ask who's behind that door?" Jonathan grinned as he crossed the threshold. "You could get some unpleasant surprises."

"Who would bother to knock at that door if they didn't have good intentions?" retorted Tommy as he rose from behind his desk to shake his hand. The room looked tidier than it had done the other day, when Jonathan had seen it. There was still quite a number of boxes on the ground, but a large spot had been cleared on the desk, the files piled up in heaps along the edges, making it look like a re-enactment of the Red Sea parting before Moses. However, he did not have a lot of time to gaze around as Tommy picked up his jacket and headed for the door.

"Hamilton's office's just round that corner, but he's so stiff about rules and stuff that he doesn't like it when people come to his office unannounced. Blimey, you're actually on time!" the Liverpudlian remarked suddenly, sounding surprised, as his eyes came to the clock.

"You didn't think I'd make it, did you?" Jonathan smirked. "O thee of little faith."

Tommy only snorted at that as he stopped in front of an imposing door, on which he knocked three times. They waited a little, then a low-pitched voice answered from inside, "Come in."

Tommy opened the door, and Jonathan had a view of a very neat, tidy room, with lots of files and books lying on shelves, which seemed to be classified by subjects. The light was dim, filtering from under the shutters pulled at the windows to shelter the room from the heat outside. It was rather successful, and the coolness in the office was very welcome.

However, as his gaze lowered from the windows to the desk, and the man behind it, Jonathan couldn't help a peculiar sort of feeling, as if he had suddenly walked into something devoid of any warmth at all. And what was more peculiar, this feeling seemed to emanate from the occupant of the office. Everything appeared to be grey about this fellow: his hair, his skin – odd, considering that the bright Egyptian sun spared no one – and his eyes. Especially his eyes. Even the curator of the Museum of Antiquities had something slightly warmer in his eyes, at least when he looked at Evy, or one of his colleagues.

Otherwise, Charles Hamilton looked in every respect like the portrait Tommy had made of him – square jaw, square shoulders, back straight as if he'd had an umbrella stuck up his backside … The best way to describe him was to say he was a very _clean_ man. He was dressed up to the nines, his light grey suit perfect, and stared very calmly at the newcomer from behind half-moon spectacles, his fingers crossed in front of him.

"Jonathan Carnahan, sir," said Tommy behind Jonathan, and Hamilton nodded.

"Thank you, Ferguson."

A last encouraging glance, and Tommy closed the door, leaving his friend alone with the vampire.

"You are exactly on time, Mr Carnahan. Please, do take a seat."

Jonathan did take a seat, unconsciously straightening his back as he would when, as a child, he'd have to sit somewhere and endure some lecture or other unpleasant stuff.

Unless the person who gave the lecture was Evy, of course. Then he'd make a point of slouching in the chair, looking foppish, offhand, and undeterred.

For the sake of his dignity, he tried to look a little more relaxed. But the steel in the bloke's eyes and voice made it impossible. Unsettle the opponent while keeping on a mask. The perfect poker attitude.

"Listen to me well, Mr Carnahan," Hamilton said, his armchair moaning slightly as he leant to put his elbows on the desk. "The reason you are here is very simple, and I'm sure you will understand why I required your presence."

That was it – to think of him as an opponent at a poker game. Jonathan tried to imagine him behind a deck of cards, and his unease vanished as soon as the picture was precise enough. He was in his element.

"As you probably know, my name is Charles Hamilton, and I am one of the chief operators in the British Antique Research Department in Cairo. Although this city holds many priceless archaeological items, our main focus for two years has been a particular object, one that you know very well, and I think you can guess which treasure I am talking about."

"The gem taken from Ahm Shere."

"Exactly." He had a slight Essex accent, but that failed to add any cheer to his voice. "I believe you were incidental in this – taking. According to records, you were the one who sold it to the Museum."

"Indeed." That particular point seemed to be widely known, but crikey, did they keep a record of everything?

"Would you be so kind as to tell me of the circumstances of this acquisition?"

Something tightened slightly in Jonathan's stomach. What was exactly the extent of that Department's knowledge about the events of Ahm Shere? There were so many secrets involved … What did they know about the Book of the Dead? The role of the Medjai, and the former curator of the British Museum? Did they know that Alex had been the one who'd led everyone there? Did they know that Rick had killed the Scorpion King?

Did this fellow, who sat calmly behind his desk, know that his baby sister had actually died, back there?

Years of poker playing and occasional lying served Jonathan well and he didn't let any muscle of his face twitch. Instead, he gave a smile of his own, bordering on a smirk.

"By all means I will, although my memory's not quite what it used to be. I think you should ask Dr Hakim for the details of the purchase –"

"No, no, Mr Carnahan, I appear to have expressed myself badly," said Hamilton, his grey eyes still fixed on Jonathan's face. "By 'acquisition', I meant how the diamond came to fall into your hands."

"My mistake, sir." Should he continue to try and buy some time, or come clean straightaway? "Don't you already know the story?"

A small smile stretched the thin lips. "What I am interested in is a short version of _your_ story. The reports I have read shed definite light on these shady events, but hearing a person who was actually there can change one's perception of such events."

_Hmm. Right. Let's go for a shorter version, then._

Jonathan's description of the events of Ahm Shere was definitely shorter; without knowing why, he did not feel like telling this man everything he had told Tommy – maybe it was a matter of trust. He told Hamilton of the Bracelet, the mad race across the desert to get Alex back, the reunion at Ahm Shere, about Rick's slaying of the Scorpion King and how he had managed to grab the diamond before the pyramid sank into the sand. Of the Book of the Dead, the Medjai, Imhotep and his wench, and the murder of Evy, he said nothing. First, he didn't feel like talking about it, let alone to this living tin man. Also, the Medjai were a wild card, one that he didn't have any intention of laying down just yet. Finally, there was the fact that he wanted to be serious about something, for a change.

After he had finished, Hamilton, who had been listening silently throughout the story, leaned back in his armchair, his hand resting thoughtfully against his mouth. "I see. That is indeed quite a story, Mr Carnahan. The liking for hazardous archaeological expeditions runs in the family, or so it would appear."

This struck a chord in Jonathan, who blinked and opened his mouth; but before he could say anything, Hamilton leant forward again to pick up a fountain pen and a piece of paper, and said, "Well, you probably imagine that I did not summon you to hear something I already know. My principal interest is, of course, your take on what happened the day before yesterday – events of which you and my subordinate Thomas Ferguson were the unfortunate casualties."

Still puzzled about the Department official's previous remark, Jonathan told him about what had happened two days ago – this account was just as short as the one he'd given Alex, maybe even shorter. Hamilton occasionally scribbled something down on his paper as his guest talked.

"… And when I woke up, the diamond was stolen, and the assistant was no longer there. Dr Hakim seems to think that he was in fact a mole, and so far the events – or rather, the lack of events – have proven him right."

"He has not reappeared, has he?"

Jonathan shook his head. "No, and if I may venture an opinion … I don't think he will." Evy had had the same idea, adding that Jamal Hassan's job was done, and that it would probably be dangerous for him if he showed up again.

Hamilton nodded gravely, and put his pen on the desk before crossing his fingers in front of him again. "Well, thank you. This meeting has been very enlightening, and the information you gave me will be filed up and kept preciously." He rose to make his guest know that the interview was over, and Jonathan stood up as well, despite the numerous questions that boggled his mind. "I'm afraid I'll have to make this short, I have some appointments that cannot be delayed – I am a busy man. It has been a pleasure, Mr Carnahan. I look forward to our next encounter."

"Pleasure meeting you as well, sir," answered Jonathan, shaking the offered hand. "And – not to be rude or anything, but … What makes you think there _will_ be a next encounter?"

The grey-haired man gave a small smile, "As I take it, you are friends with Thomas Ferguson, aren't you? I might have the luck of seeing you in the corridors some time."

"Of course." Jonathan nodded, and turned to walk to the door. Before crossing it, he cast a last glance at Hamilton, who was again sitting behind his desk, his pen back in his hand. The strange man caught his gaze and gave him this peculiar smile of his that didn't quite reach his eyes.

It was not without a hint of relief that Jonathan closed the door behind him. Curiously enough, the temperature seemed to rise up again, as if he'd just walked out of a cold room.

"So …" A laughing but quiet voice came, and the cheerful tone in it was very welcome. "Nosferatu didn' eat you alive, did he?"

Tommy was standing in the corridor, casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, and a goofy grin on his face. He motioned Jonathan away from the door, and when they were far enough, the Southerner ran a hand through his hair, and grinned back at his friend.

"Didn't try to, anyway. But don't worry – I've teeth, too."

"You stayed a long time in there," said Tommy, almost seriously. "What did he ask you?"

"Oh, stuff about Ahm Shere – and my 'account' of what happened the day before yesterday, obviously. This bloke is creepier than some mummies I encountered." Jonathan paused, then, ignoring the little voice in his head that called him a complete fool, asked a little uncertainly, "That fellow, he's been working in here for a long time?"

"Yeah, I know, he doesn't look like he sees the light of day that much," Tommy laughed, then stopped as Jonathan shook his head.

"I mean – how long's he been working here for – in the Department?"

"I dunno …" His friend looked thoughtful as he tapped his forefinger against his chin. "Ages. He was already working here when I came … Why d'you ask me that?"

"Because …" Jonathan hesitated a moment before finally answering, "He hinted to my family, and I thought he might've known my parents, you know." Tommy gave him a peculiar look, something between surprise and sympathy, and Jonathan waved it off, feeling his cheeks grow hot from the embarrassment. "Bah, forget it. I'll ask him one of those days – it's not like it's important."

"Jon, this _is_ important," Tommy protested, and Jonathan cursed himself for having brought up the subject first. "This is about your parents, dammit – if you don't want to ask him, I could –"

"No. Please. Forget it," Jonathan interrupted him in a definite tone, not wanting his friend to make a mushy fuss about it. "Besides, it's more than likely that he's just heard some story or other about them. In their time, they were quite famous in their line of work, after all."

Tommy was silent for a minute, looking sobered up, and Jonathan had the time to feel his cheeks cool down to a more normal state. What had Alex said, the other time? _'We're lads, you know how it goes.'_

Yes, he knew.

"C'mon," Tommy finally said, clapping his friend's shoulder energetically, "it's all right – you've the right to be pig-headed about personal stuff. Now let's get you someplace cheery. What about that Sultan's Kasbah?"

Jonathan couldn't help a smile. After having recovered from the bear-like clap that had driven all air from his lungs, that is. "That'd be nice. But don't you have work to do?"

Tommy gave him a milder version of the evil eye, "You might not have noticed, but it's Saturday. Hence, no work for me today."

"Then tell me what the hell you are doing here?" Jonathan asked, a good-natured smirk pulling at his mouth. Tommy's evil eye improved a lot.

" 'That your way of thanking me for coming to work on a Saturday for you?"

Jonathan actually let out a laugh. "You – don't tell me you were dumb enough to come just to introduce me to Hamilton!"

There was a beat. Then Tommy cleared his throat, and walked past his friend toward the building's exit. "Let's get started, now, shall we?"

Jonathan was still snickering when they left the British Consulate, and Tommy had rarely looked closer to sulking.

* * *

Cairo was definitely changing. When Rick used to live there, between 1902 and 1916, the main means of transportation had been camels and horses, with a preference for the first, because of their never-ending endurance and resistance to the harsh conditions of the desert. There had been no real streets, only more or less broad paths of earth, dotted with shit and detritus. The fort and the biggest buildings were already there as they were now, and some houses too, but they stood like white oases lost in streaks of dirty yellow sand.

It was not so now.

In place of most of the bumpy earth roads, now lay tarred streets on which cars were slowly replacing camels. On the pavements, lit by a growing number of electric street lamps, walked almost as many Cairo residents as foreigners, tourists or adventure-seekers, and the contrast was stark between the flashy ladies' suits, the coloured, but simpler djellabas of the men, and the darker, soberer clothes of the Egyptian women, most of whom wore veils.

And it wasn't as if the Egyptian metropolis was the only place that was going through changes – skirts were shortening in London as well, and the city was growing darker with all the gas escaping from cars' exhaust pipes. While a few years ago the wireless had been a luxury which only a handful of rich folks could afford, pretty much everybody owned a set these days, even if the news from the world they received through it did not always sound cheerful. There was war raging on in Spain, and rumour had it that Italy was about to get involved in the slaughter as well. Also, Germany's chancellor had annexed and rearmed the Rhineland, and though he did appear as a rather harmless eccentric, he was still an eccentric who had slowly but surely gotten the ragged after-war Germany back on its feet.

Still, there was something that Rick didn't like about Adolf Hitler, a small, absurd something that he couldn't quite explain. Maybe it had something to do with the way he had looked so pissed off last year on the cinema news when that Black guy had won gold in the Olympics.

The American stopped his musings to look up at the sky above him. It was about five in the afternoon, and it had turned from a wide, blinding stretch of white to a wide, blinding stretch of light blue. In a few hours, the blue would gradually deepen, before growing ink-black and sprinkled with small but bright stars. He had so often slept under them that he had found it unsettling to be unable to see them on his first nights in London, but they remained visible in Cairo, which was the only source of artificial light before the endless sky of the desert.

But the stars were far from being his major concern right now. Evy had taken Alex to the Museum for the afternoon, and Rick, left to his own devices and facing the danger of dying from boredom, had decided to roam the town in search for a good time. A reasonable good time, of course, as Evelyn and her principles had greatly tempered his taste for his old definition of 'good time'.

It was good to be back on Cairo's streets, no more than another face in the crowd, unusual as he might look. It was just not the same thing in London. You didn't get the same faces – some people here had mugs you just couldn't shake off. Winston Havelock, for instance, or that little bastard Beni … And those were familiar, if long-gone memories.

Rick turned round a corner and chuckled inwardly. He had been unconsciously heading for the Sultan's Kasbah. Maybe that was why Winston had seemed to pop up into his mind for no apparent reason. As for Beni … He had no idea why he had thought of the sorry sneaky traitor.

The Kasbah was still as dingy and dark as he had known it, but now thrill-seeking tourists could be seen mingling with the rougher, shadier regulars.

It looked like the world was definitely changing.

"Rick O'Connell, I presume."

Rick gave a small laugh. He'd know that British accent anywhere.

He turned, and sure enough, was met with a pair of slightly slanted blue eyes and a quizzical smirk.

"Fancy seeing you here, old boy, of all places."

"It's five in the afternoon, Jonathan," the American said, his voice quietly mocking. "Bit early to go looking for trouble in a bar, even for you."

"Tut-tut, my good son. What makes you think I go _looking_ for trouble?"

"'Cause trouble usually finds you." Rick looked from Jonathan to Ferguson. "Sorry, didn't see ya. Ferguson, is it?"

"Yeah, Thomas Ferguson," said the guy, holding out a hand which Rick shook. "I don't know Cairo that much, so Jon here was showing me around – typical local sites and all that." He grinned, and Rick got the impression that Jonathan and him shared the same sense of humour. _Lord have mercy._

"Come on, instead of talking nonsense, come and have a drink with us!" Jonathan suggested enthusiastically. "I could use a little bit of cheering up, to tell the truth – I've just met Nosferatu."

"Nos – who?" The name was not entirely unfamiliar to Rick, who searched his memory. "Oh, right, that old creep from the moving pictures. Did you bump into the actor or something?"

"No, his boss –" Jonathan pointed to Tommy "– wanted to see me about what happened at the Museum two days ago. Seems that the Research Department was keeping an eye on the diamond."

"And this guy looked like a vampire?"

"The closest to the real thing I've ever seen." His brother-in-law's eyes shifted from Rick to a large camel led by a small Egyptian girl, and an amused smile replaced the previous smirk. Rick arched an eyebrow, surprised.

"You know that girl?"

"Her camel, mostly. And knowing you, I bet you'd find the story very funny."

"I'm not sure I wanna know," Rick said, before looking at Ferguson, who shrugged to show he didn't know what his friend was talking about. After a second's thinking, though, he turned back to Jonathan, frowning slightly.

"Actually I'd like to know. What did you –"

"Gentlemen? Would you by any chance be Messrs O'Connell, Ferguson and Carnahan?"

The voice was low-pitched and inexpressive, and as Rick turned round, he saw that it matched its owner perfectly. The guy who had just gotten out of the black Lincoln parked a few feet away wore a dark suit and felt hat, and small glasses; his face was – blank, for the lack of a better word. The two others standing on either side of him, wearing similar suits and fedoras completed a picture that was very odd, and not a little bit spooky.

Tommy's brown eyebrow shot in the air as Jonathan's blue eyes narrowed. "We would, yeah," Rick said, his instinct awakening in his guts. "Is there anything you want from us?"

"Indeed, there is," said Oddball number two, on the left of Middle Oddball. "Please be so kind as to follow us."

"What've we done?" asked Jonathan, his voice a little more high-pitched than ordinary – maybe it was the idea of these strange guys asking for him, or else Rick was perhaps not the only one with instincts. Unless it was just Jonathan being Jonathan.

His question was met with a smile. It seemed like a term adequate enough to describe it, although Rick had once seen a rather similar expression flicker over Imhotep's face. His regenerated face, of course.

"You will be informed in due time. Please follow us – now."

"Rick …," muttered Jonathan, low enough to prevent the Oddball gang from getting the words, "I don't like this. I don't like this at all."

"Think _I_ do?" Rick retorted between clenched teeth, before willing his lips into a smile, which turned out to be just as grim as Oddball number three's. "You know, I don't like it much when people order me around for absolutely no reason. So, you have two options. One, you tell us where the hell you want to take us, and why. Or second, you keep your mouth shut and you walk away from us. Pick one."

Something changed very slightly on Middle Oddball's face, and as the doors of the black Lincoln opened again, three more dark-clad guys getting out, Rick realised that a real, intentional smirk was in fact pulling at his mouth. The rear guard Oddballs went to stand behind the original three, their hands in their trouser pockets so that the gun holsters showed under their jackets.

He heard Jonathan beside him gulp uneasily.

"Now listen here, fellows – we don't want any sort of trouble," the Englishman said, and Rick, who knew him well, could discern a rising note of fear in his voice. He wasn't sure anyone else had spotted that as well, though. The man was a better actor than his sister. "So let's stay calm, and converse like civilised people. I'm sure there's got to be an error somewhere –"

Jonathan's voice trailed off as Oddballs number two and three took out their own guns and pointed them directly at him.

"There is no 'error', Mr Carnahan," stated Middle Oddball – or Number One, as Rick was starting to call him – coolly, very calmly. "This is simply an invite for the three of you to join us and follow us where we must take you. We do not wish any trouble to happen either."

None of them moved, and the situation seemed to settle as a stalemate. Rick cursed himself every name he could think of for having gone out without a gun, at least a small one. His gut feeling was now screaming at him not to follow these guys. And there had not been a single occasion when he had listened to his instinct and done the wrong thing.

Okay, maybe once or twice.

To his left, he could see Jonathan's face growing paler, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. But aside from these, he showed no other signs of fear, and stood firmly his ground. Were it not for the circumstances, Rick would have allowed a smile. The world was changing, but so were a few people around him, it seemed.

'_Yes, yes, it's obviously very fine heroics, O'Connell,_' had said Jonathan on occasions when past events were being discussed. Rick could easily recall the quizzical look in his brother-in-law's eyes, matching the sarcastic note in the British-accented voice. '_But there _are_ some times when backing up really is the smartest option, you know._' And thinking back on it, Rick realised that it was one of the rare occurrences where Jonathan's view had matched Ardeth Bay's. _Live today, fight tomorrow_.

Where was that dog-gone Medjai when you needed him?

From the corner of his eye, Rick looked past Jonathan over to the streets, half-wishing Ardeth to materialise out of the blue to help them, like he was used to. Time was not stopping for them, as he saw that almost nobody had noticed what was going on in that shaded alley … Almost nobody.

For there was somebody. The young Egyptian girl he'd seen earlier, her right hand clutching at the reins of her camel, was standing near a wall, her eyes set directly at them. From where he stood, Rick couldn't see her very well, but the expression on her face half-hidden by long, tangled hair was clearly fear. It slowly shifted to fearful determination as their eyes met, and she nodded.

The American couldn't see what was coming – yet, somehow, he knew that something was coming. His head turned back toward Number One, who was saying, his voice grating like steel against steel, "… starting to become preposterous. This is not an invite anymore, this is an order! We are armed, you are not, the wisest choice for you would be to come quietly, don't you –"

Number One's head snapped toward the main street at Rick's left as a camel came galloping in their direction, bawling like he'd just escaped hell. The Egyptian girl was running behind the stray beast, appearing to try to catch it and not doing a very good job of it. As the camel tumbled into the Oddball rear guard, causing much confusion among the ranks, Rick lost no time and ran like a maniac, grabbing Ferguson, who had stood frozen the entire time, by the collar of his jacket, Jonathan on his heels.

A split second's look behind them was enough to understand that the Oddball gang had no intention of abandoning the pursuit. In fact, three were getting back into the Lincoln, and the other three were already after them on foot.

The situation was getting a little desperate. This was almost the outskirts of the old city, which meant a clear enough path for the car, and there was very little chance the Gang would not catch up with them.

That's when Rick noticed that Jonathan wasn't with them anymore.

"Shit!"

Before he could ask Ferguson about it, say anything at all, or even decide between fury or concern for his brother-in-law, a loud horn pierced the din, and both Ferguson and the American turned as one to find a brown, curly-haired head emerging from a convertible parked nearby. The motor was running.

"C'mon, get in! We haven't got all day, for cripes' sake!"

Okay. So Jonathan had not let them down after all, and he had even kept his head quite decently. Something to tell Evy, she'd be so pleased – if they could get themselves out of this sorry mess first.

Not losing time in asking where this car came from, or even how Jonathan had managed to get it running without keys, Rick, followed by Ferguson, leapt over the door as the car shot off at top speed, its tyres screeching. Familiar with Jonathan's 'emergency' driving, Rick clung at whatever he could grasp, and saw Ferguson, looking kind of pale, do the same as he yelled, "PUT YOUR FOOT DOWN, JON!"

_Never a good adventure without a good scare on the road_, thought Rick, looking behind to see the three remaining Oddballs rush into the Lincoln and after them. This was the third time he was forced to escape in a car, or at least a motored vehicle. At least, the two first times, they'd had weapons to defend themselves, and Ardeth on their side, which had been a considerable advantage, to use one of those understatements Brits were so fond of. But the first time, their opponents had been a large, crazed mob of zombies possessed by Imhotep. The second, it had been four decaying mummy warriors woken up by Imhotep.

Now, this time, they were being pursued by six men, all-human, non-mummy regular guys. But it looked as if the difference was slim, as these men seemed to be vying for their blood as well.

While every bump and pothole in the road brought the car closer to flying, Rick wondered whether their old mummy buddy had a part in all of this. If he did, then things didn't look so bad – they were kind of used to the end of the world, after all, and Rick had at least the promise of some serious mummy ass kicking before the end. That was already something.

Ferguson glanced behind, and yelled, "They're gettin' closer, Jon! Where are you driving to exactly?"

"I have no bloody idea!" yelled back Jonathan, his hands clasping the wheel so tight that his knuckles were white. Rick had to carefully keep to his side of the car, as far as possible from the driver, whose more than sharp turns of the wheel sometimes missed him by inches. Alex would probably have found his uncle's antics quite funny. _Thank God he's not here_.

He turned from the black car still following them to the outlines of the landscape ahead of them. A landscape which he knew quite well, for having followed Evy down there countless of times.

"Jonathan!" Rick shouted, trying to point to the direction without letting go too much – the car's jerks would have thrown him out easily. "Next street to the left leads to Giza – take it!"

"What's that you said?"

"GIZA! On your LEFT! Take the NEXT STREET to Giza!"

"Right-o, partner!"

Just as he said those words, Jonathan gave a deadly turn of the wheel, and had Rick and Ferguson not been holding on for dear life, that would have been their last ride. It was a sheer miracle if all of Rick's organs were still in the right place, because his insides sure felt all mixed up.

Still, it worked.

The Lincoln roared past the street in a flash, and the three of them cheered as the road to Giza stretched ahead of them, over the Nile. The top of the Great Pyramid of Kheops was already in sight, and it seldom had been such a welcome one. Sure, it would take the Gang little time to slow down and make a U-turn, but that little stunt had at least bought them some time. Rick allowed himself to relax slightly, and he saw Ferguson sag a bit in the back seat. The Englishman looked a little green around the edges. Hell, the American felt slightly sick to the stomach himself. At least, the other two times, he'd had something to get busy with, like zombies and mummies, and afterwards he couldn't tell the bruises he'd got from them from the ones he'd got from Jonathan's driving.

Now, being forced to actually pay attention to the road, he had to admit that he definitely wasn't feeling quite comfortable when his brother-in-law was driving on such extreme occasions. Even if this was their only lifesaver.

A weird noise coming from the inside of the automobile interrupted his line of thought and he stared worriedly at a point somewhere near his ankle. "Something wrong?"

Jonathan opened his mouth to answer, but was cut by Ferguson's cry of "Hey! They're back!"

They were. The shiny black Lincoln was racing again behind them, the sight even stranger on this almost desert road, under that sun. It reminded Rick of a black bug in the middle of the desert.

And the noise in the engine wasn't stopping. On the contrary.

"What's the matter with this car?" yelled Rick, bordering on fear, his guts churning. Jonathan shook his head, looking rather desperate, his face white and sweaty.

"I don't know!" His eyes widened, and he stole a bemused, almost angry glance at the American, "How the hell would I know, anyway? This car isn't mine!"

Rick rolled his eyes. They were doomed.

The Lincoln was now half a mile behind them, and to their horrified surprise, the motor gave a sputter and the car started to slow down.

Two voices rose in the same time.

"Step on the gas, Jon!"

"Do something, for Christ's sake!"

Jonathan fumbled with the gearbox and the cords sticking out from under the glove compartment, but it didn't seem to stop the car from slowing down. Looking at a complete loss, he turned his eyes up to the sky, his face ashen, his jaw clenched. "Our Lady of the Blessed Acceleration, don't fail me now …"

Rick fought back a fit of nervous laughter that threatened to burst out. He'd have to remember that one.

Yet it seemed that Jonathan's bizarre prayer was heard, or else one of his attempts was successful as the car's engine started up again, and the vehicle picked up speed. Rick released the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding.

But it was still a little bit early for rejoicing, it seemed. The Lincoln was now less than a quarter of a mile behind them and was still gaining more ground.

The Nile divided into two branches where they crossed it, so fast that the great river whooshed past them in the blink of an eye, at over sixty miles an hour. Now the bases of the three pyramids were visible, and the gigantic statue of the Sphinx stood seemingly right in front of them. The road was perfectly straight for two miles, and they were the only two cars, except for a big truck that could be seen miles away behind the Lincoln.

"Boy, are we in trouble," he heard Ferguson mutter behind him.

_We're in _big_ trouble_, his mind echoed as two Oddballs leant out the windows, and pointed their guns at them.

"DOWN!" Rick shouted, just as one, then two gunshots cracked through the roar of the engine. The three of them sank at once in their respective seats, Jonathan just peering from over the wheel.

"Maniacs!" he yelled, making Rick jump a little and look at him bemusedly. "Bloody bunch of completely cracked lunatics!"

His face looked halfway between equally intense terror and fury, and it seemed that the second had taken over the first for once. Rick actually grinned in spite of the gunshots. His brother-in-law was quite funny indeed when he let something like this happen, and the thought of Alex's burst of laughter when he told him afterwards cheered him up consequently.

However, this feeling was short-lived. Just as they arrived at a forking in the road, the first camels, horses and tents of an archaeological party drawing close, another shot cracked through the air, and the car gave a great swerve. Jonathan shouted something that made Rick himself wince. Evy would have undoubtedly fainted right away had she heard that.

The car left the road, and the three men clung onto what they could to avoid being thrown out.

"They've hit a tyre, I think!" cried Ferguson, looking down over the door to his left.

"You're kidding?" retorted Rick sarcastically as he turned briefly to him. "Now what?" he asked Jonathan, who struggled hard to keep the wheel from jerking violently.

"The car, it's – I can't – HANG ON!!" he shouted suddenly, his eyes wide with terror. Rick took one look ahead, and his heart seemed to stop beating for a second as he saw that the car had been zigzagging among the tents and was now heading at top speed toward a cliff that looked six feet high.

No, not heading. They were already on it. Rick dived in his seat.

There was an eerie second during which the car seemed to fly in absolute silence and grace. Then, as all good things eventually draw to an end, there was a mighty crashing noise and what felt like a small earthquake to the occupants in the car, followed by various metallic sounds indicating that the brave, finally beaten car was falling apart. Finally, a high cloud of thick dust enveloped everything in brownish yellow silence.

Rick slowly opened one wary eye, then, as nothing happened, opened the other. He was still curled up in his seat, a bit bruised, sure, but alive. Just as slowly, he sat up, grasping the door of the car for support. Dust was everywhere, and he couldn't see a damn thing. "Everyone all right?" he croaked, shaking sand off his hair.

" 'M right 'ere," mumbled a shaky voice behind him, and a hand grasped the back of his seat. "Jesus bloody Christ, what a ride …"

So Ferguson was okay. Good thing.

"Jonathan?"

No reply.

"Jonathan, are you here?"

The dust was settling, and as the cloud dispersed, Rick could see that Jonathan was still sitting beside him, staring right in front of him with wide eyes, his back straight, stiff as a board. The wheel was still clutched in his hands, except that it was no longer attached to the car.

The picture would have been hilarious in other circumstances.

"Hey, Jonathan," said Rick, feeling the beginning of a vague concern. "You okay?"

Still no reply. His brother-in-law looked like somebody struck by lightening, except that he was covered in dust and sand, not roasted on the spot. Puzzled, Rick reached out to poke his shoulder. "Hey, time to wake up n – _whoa!_" Jonathan had jumped a foot in the air, as if Rick's hand had sent electricity running through his body; he blinked once very slowly, then turned blue eyes that had recovered their usual character to his brother-in-law.

"Don't do that."

"Sorry," said Rick with a grin, more glad than he'd thought he'd be to have him back. "You almost had me worried for a minute. You sure you're not hurt at all?"

"No, I'm fine. Just a little bit shaken, I guess. Tommy?"

"I'm all right, Jon," answered Ferguson's still shaken voice. "Just remind me not to get in a car when you're driving next time, mate."

"No problem."

They scrambled out of the car, Rick kicking the mangled door open. It fell on the ground with a grim-sounding thud. "Jonathan, who was the owner of that car?"

"A very unfortunate person," deadpanned Jonathan, leaning against the radiator grill, his knees wobbling. Rick rolled his eyes.

"Well, we'll soon be far more 'unfortunate' than this guy if we don't scram _right now_!" Peeping over the small cliff, he saw that the Gang had left the Lincoln and was now searching for them among the tents. "We gotta get out of here."

Jonathan didn't move. He was staring at a tent a few feet away with a glint in his eyes. "I say, why don't we just put on some of their large robes and wait till these guys are gone? No need for brutal confrontation of brawn, is there?"

Rick thought about it, rejected the idea, then looked over the cliff again.

Okay, maybe they really had no other choice after all.

But as he turned from the cliff to the beaten, dusty car, he heard a quiet voice say, "I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Jon."

Rick turned. What he saw made his heart leap in his throat. Ferguson was standing near the car, a sorrowful expression on his face, and a gun in his hand, aimed directly at Jonathan.

To say Rick was shocked was a little far from the truth. In fact, he couldn't have said what he was himself at that point. Shocked, stunned, furious – a combination of the three, plus a few other feelings he didn't bother to decipher. For one second, he was tempted to be furious at Jonathan's credulity and ill-placed trust … But his anger abated when he took one look at his brother-in-law's face. Rick felt a nasty pang in the guts at this expression. It was not dramatic, it was not the 'theatre' style reaction to such a betrayal, and he couldn't have begun to describe it accurately – it was simply pain carved out on a man's face.

Neither of the two Englishmen moved, and this silent stillness seemed to root Rick to the ground as well. His insides were screaming for him to run, and he could have, if he had wanted. But coming back to Evelyn to tell her that her brother had been taken by weirdoes in black suits and hats after being betrayed by a friend? Better face whatever was in store for them.

The Oddball gang caught up with them, the six guys in suits walking as silently as shadows. Each footstep lifted a tiny cloud of dust. Before they all went down, the men were standing around them, each revolver pointed at them.

"Well, well, well," said Number One, raising an eyebrow at the scene. "After all the trouble you have caused us, and these entertaining last minutes, it would eventually seem that you have done all of this for nothing. How unfortunate."

Rick had very rarely felt a stronger impulse to deck a guy. He suppressed a growl, and cast a deadly glare at the smaller man.

"Oh, you can stare at me, Mr O'Connell, for all the good it will do," smirked Number One, a sickening note of superiority in his voice. "But things are as they are: the odds are against you, and there is no camel to save you this time!" One wave of his hand, and three guns were aimed at his chest, from less than four feet away. "If you truly wish to try some heroics, you are welcome to do so. However, know that we have orders to take the two of you alive, if possible."

Okay. So these guys didn't give a damn if they died, but it'd be better if they didn't. Rick was sorely tempted to send them all to hell, but he had one reason not to. He'd never see Evy and Alex again if he did. This particular reason had far more weight than any other excuse to go nuts and do something stupid.

He willed his tense muscles into relaxing slightly, and even allowed himself the luxury of a smile. "I wouldn't give you this pleasure, ya rotten stinkpot."

Number One's eyes narrowed, and he stuck up his nose. "Falling back on verbal violence when physical assault is prevented. This is so vulgar, so very American that I'm not in the least surprised, Mr O'Connell."

The screeching noise of big tyres stopping on a bad road came from the trail, a little far behind, and Number One unveiled his eye-teeth in a smile again. "It seems our friends have arrived. Gentlemen, if you'll allow, we'll be your escort."

"So that we don't get lost? Great. Didn't know we were so popular." The sensation of one Oddball's gun being pressed between his shoulder blades silenced Rick for a little while. He took the opportunity to look around.

Jonathan and him were being led to a truck – the very same truck he'd seen earlier behind the Lincoln. The back door of the truck opened, and Rick was kindly asked to get in. As he climbed deftly onto the floor, he looked behind him to see Number One holding Jonathan back for a minute.

"If this is of any comfort to you, Mr Carnahan," he said in that slimy voice of his, "I'll let you know that Mr Ferguson had very little choice."

Rick couldn't see Jonathan's eyes. He kept his gaze to the ground. Behind the rest of the Gang, a few feet away, Ferguson's face was downcast as well.

"Still, he could have not chosen this, could he?"

Number One gave a very small smile, one not unlike Imhotep's when he had advanced toward Rick for the killing blow. "I do not deny that."

This time, Rick all but leapt from his spot on the floor of the truck to punch the bastard into the ground.

Jonathan climbed into the truck in turn, and went to sit a few feet away from his brother-in-law, still looking down.

Rick was wondering whether or not he should try to catch his gaze when the Oddball standing near him seized his revolver by the barrel and brought it down.

Everything went black.

* * *

Erm… Sorry /:o)

Don't kill me. But I hope you had come to actually like Tom … I know, authors are cruel. And this isn't the only thing I had planned since I begun taking notes because a plot mummy was gnawing at my toes.

Woohoo! I got reviews! We love reviewses, my precious, yess :D

**_EggSalad:_** I'm afraid I can't get you an elephant, dear, but I can always try. When's your birthday, anyway? :o) Thanks for the wonderful comments, I absolutely adore long, detailed reviews. Hehe, Jon… You know what's funny? When I first saw TM, I was 17, and consequently drooled all through the film over a certain mysterious, black-clad person with a lovely accent :D Then I saw TMR, I was 2 years older and in university, and… I guess I did some growing-up, because I got this funny fuzzy feeling in the stomach at the "fight" between Anck and Jon. Then I saw both in English last year (DVDs! Hooray!) and it definitely decided me to write fanfiction. Original versions are often so much better than the dubbed version!! Oh, and as for Tommy… Was your last review your last word? :o) But I like him, too. He's fun to write as a good guy, and you'll decide by yourself in the next chapter whether he makes a good bad guy :o) By the way, what exactly did you find "a bit strange" about him? I'm very curious to read a reader's POV on the matter :o)

**_eris:_** An evil streak… oh, you have no idea :D Tommy's motivation is explained a little bit further, don't worry. Thanks for the 'uncle/nephew interaction' comment – they're just too fun to write together, and Jon is a little bit like an overgrown kid himself :o)

**_luckyfannah:_** Well, Rick was a little bit busy being furious at his wife's one-sided decision to wait for the Diamond to pop up again to be concerned about his brother-in-law at the time. He knew he was alive, and that was fine for him; and I think our dear American would believe that 'explanations are best kept for later' in urgent situations :o) Would I be mistaken to say that you liked this chapter? I'm not much for torture, but there are some situations in life that seem to be in it just for the sake of making us cringe – why wouldn't it be the same in fiction? :D Oh, a question that's been around for a while, but I never asked – are you a boy or a girl? It's not like it's very clear in your various Net names :o)

**_Lilylynn:_** Thanks, dear! I love writing E/R intimate scenes, they're so cute – and since they're married, G-rated romance doesn't offend anyone, so that's an added bonus. I mean, when you publish something on the Net, you've got to keep in mind that it'll perhaps be read by people who are offended by things you can consider of little importance. For instance, I believe that if two people really love each other, then it's their own business what they do or not, and I'm perfectly aware that other people have different opinions. Then again, when writing romance in a different time period, you also got to consider context and everything… Am I writing an essay here? Sorry. Didn't mean to :o) Thanks anyway!

Much of love, and I hope the lurkers out there enjoyed this chapter as well! :o)


	7. In the Dark

**Author's Notes:** Hi! I've made it, despite a very reluctant computer. After a few shady manoeuvres, I give you this chapter! So, this quieter 7th chapter was nice to write after the rush of the previous one, but I hope you like it as much as you liked the previous one:o) 'In the Dark' is a Nina Simone song, but another one I can't remember the tune… anyway, enjoy :o)

_Well, I'd written a very funny and witty _disclaimer_, but I'll have to do without, since this computer won't let me open the chapter. So, I don't own any of the characters starring in _The Mummy_ and _The Mummy Returns_. I'm glad that Tom Ferguson popped in my head one day, though – couldn't write anything without him, 'smatter of fact :o)_

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 7: In the Dark_**

Evelyn was surprised to find the door of their house locked when she returned from the Museum of Antiquities with Alex. She was surprised, but not worried, of course. Jonathan had told her of his appointment earlier in the afternoon with Tom Ferguson's superior, and as for Rick … Her husband must have got bored and decided to take a stroll down in old Cairo. That would be very much like him. She imagined him roaming the streets, blue eyes alert and light-brown hair ruffled by the slight breeze, and smiled at the mental picture.

"Mum? Where's Dad gone to?" Alex came in right behind her, carelessly dropping his jacket on a little piece of furniture near the door.

"Hang up your jacket, sweetheart – you know your father, he's probably roving about the old city. Maybe he's helping your uncle with my birthday present, like you did yesterday."

Alex stared at her, mouth slightly agape. "How d'you know that?"

"I'm your mum, Alex. A mum knows everything." That, plus the experience of many occasions when Jonathan had asked his brother-in-law or nephew for help at the very last minute – the nature and quality of the presents was often telling. She smiled shrewdly for effect, and her son's startled expression turned into a suspicious look.

"Then why did you ask me what I'd done when we got back?"

"I didn't want to spoil your enthusiasm, dear," she answered easily, still smiling. Alex thought it over for a second, and then nodded quite seriously.

"Right. I understand."

"Very good." She put a hand on the wall for support as she took her shoes off and put on her slippers. "Now, how did you like the Museum?"

"It's great, obviously," said Alex with a shrug, following his mother to the kitchen for tea. "They've got some really interesting stuff in here, and there's so many rooms!"

Evelyn put the kettle to heat up and sat at the table near her son, who had put two teacups in front of them. She knew that tone of voice. It always announced a 'but'.

"But … It's not quite as interesting as the British Museum. They have all the neat treasures, and the famous mummies too."

"The Cairo Museum has been asking for recovery of Egyptian treasure for some time now, you know," said Evelyn softly. "They claim that the British Museum has no right to keep Egypt's legacy so far from its land of origin. What do you think of that?"

Alex wrinkled his small, round nose. "Guess they have a point … But then, if they got everything back, the people in London couldn't see anything anymore – the Rosetta Stone, the mummies, all the sculptures …" Evelyn hid a smile. Alex could spend entire days in Room 25 of the British Museum, and its gigantic library. "It's a little complicated."

"Like most things in the world are." Evelyn got up to fetch the kettle, leaving Alex in deep thought. Just as she turned off the gas, she heard the doorbell ring, Alex's shout of "Must be Dad! I'm getting the door!" and his hurried footsteps thumping down the hall. She shook her head with a smile. Whatever she did or said about the rule of not running inside the house, Alex had _always_ ran to the door when he expected someone, in particular when his father was due home anytime, like now.

However, as she didn't hear Rick's voice, she went to put the kettle in a safe place, and left the kitchen to join Alex at the door.

"Mum, it's a girl – she says she wants to talk to you," came Alex's voice just as she turned round the corner to the hall.

There was indeed a girl standing in the doorway, a skinny Egyptian girl who appeared to be only a few years older than Alex, looking shy and unsure. Evelyn smiled at her. "Can I help you?"

The girl twiddled her fingers, and put her hand in her pocket. "I think not, but maybe _I_ can help." She spoke in a fluty, accented voice. "Do you know this man?" And she handed her a wallet.

Evelyn took the leather-bound item, and frowned. It was Jonathan's, unmistakably. As she opened it she saw his identity papers, which had a small photograph and two addresses on it – his London flat, and their house in Cairo. When she checked on the money, she found that nothing seemed to be missing.

"This wallet belongs to my brother," she said, mistrust rising. "How did it fall into your hands?"

"Please do not think I stole it!" the girl said earnestly, and Evelyn saw her son's blue eyes narrow toward her. "But it's a rather long story. I think the owner of this wallet might be in danger just now."

Evelyn peered at the girl, trying to decide whether she was speaking the truth or not. At least, she had returned the wallet, apparently with everything in it … This fact spoke in her favour.

What had Jonathan got into this time?

"Come in," she said, still suspicious, stepping aside to let the girl in. Alex stared up at her as she slipped past him like a shadow. "Alex, dear, would you get the tea, please?"

While Alex grumbled his way to the kitchen, Evelyn offered the girl a chair and sat down herself. The child sat there, her hands still twiddling in her lap, stealing glances around her.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to be proper. I'm Mrs O'Connell."

"My name is Senet," said the girl, who stopped glancing around to look her in the eye. Evelyn appreciated that. She liked good, frank eye contact in a conversation.

"So," she said more kindly, as Alex brought the tea tray and came to sit on another chair a few feet away. "How did you find yourself in possession of my brother Jonathan's wallet?"

"Well, my father has three camels, one called Djem, and he is my favourite. I often take care of him, and my father had entrusted me today with him to bring some baskets to his cousin, in the old city."

Evelyn, sensing that Senet was less afraid than she had been on entering, let her talk, interrupting her only to offer her a cup of tea, which she accepted gladly. She sounded very polite, and sat straight in her chair.

"The problem is that Djem can be silly sometimes, like a very young camel – he will push a person until they fall, and keep them on the ground for a long time. He only wants to play, but this habit of his has already caused us trouble, because people usually do not like camels, even less when they humiliate them."

A smile begun to pull at the corner of Evelyn's mouth, in spite of her puzzlement over the whole thing. She could more or less see where this was going.

"And today was no exception: Djem annoyed a man, and I feared that he would be furious – but he was very kind, and didn't understand why I was so afraid." Alex was grinning, the mental picture of his uncle being attacked by a playful camel probably vivid in his young mind, and Evelyn gave a warm smile. Her brother could be a rake and a ne'er do well, but his heart was still in the right place.

"Later, when I was returning from my father's cousin, I saw him again from afar, he was talking with two men – one broader, with light-brown hair, and the other taller, with blond hair."

_Probably Rick and Mr Ferguson_, Evelyn thought, wondering where Senet's story was heading.

"While they were talking, a large black car stopped near them, and three men dressed in black suits got out and spoke to them. They looked odd. And after a few seconds, three other men got out of the car. Then they took out weapons – guns – and pointed them at your brother and his friends."

Evelyn's blood ran cold. "Who were those men?" she asked anxiously. Alex's eyes had widened in apprehension, and she was sorely tempted to send him away to his room – she realised that she ought to have done it much earlier, but she had not taken young Senet and her news seriously at first. It was too late now, Alex had heard both too much and too little. Besides, Evelyn was fully aware that he would do anything to hear anyway. She'd caught him eavesdropping quite a number of times.

Senet shook her dark head, "I do not know. They were all European, and wore dark suits and hats – a little like this one." She was pointing at Rick's trilby, which he had left on the chest of drawers. Evelyn felt a slight pang of anguish, but she fought it down, focusing on the present.

"What happened next?"

"Well, I was afraid, but I thought I ought to do something, because your brother had been kind to me earlier, and that does not happen very often. So I sent Djem on the men with a slap on the backside, and your brother and his friends took the opportunity to run."

Evelyn let out the breath she'd been holding. "That was very kind of you, Senet, but it doesn't tell me how Jonathan's wallet landed up in your pocket. Did he drop it?"

The girl shook her head again. "No. He ran past me to get into a car, and when he saw me he threw me this thing, saying, 'Give that to my sister. Tell her we're in trouble' He got the car running, the other two got in, and they went away with the black car behind them. So after returning Djem to my father, I came to your house. The address was on the papers, but I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find you."

There was a silence, and Senet looked down, her face hidden by her hair. Evelyn tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Something must have happened, otherwise Rick and Jonathan would have got home earlier than Alex and her.

Alex … She looked over to her boy, sitting stiffly on his chair. His little mouth was set, and he was frowning.

"When did that happen?" he asked, his young voice so serious. His mother's heart melted. Then she shook herself mentally, because this was really not the moment.

"About two hours ago, I think," replied Senet uncomfortably. Another silence followed, heavier than the previous one. This definitely settled the fact that something had gone wrong. Evelyn could not help glancing at the hall, straining her ears in the wild hope of hearing the door open and her two favourite men walk in, busy with the usual friendly bickering she was accustomed to.

"Thank you, Senet," she said in a slightly strained voice, "for having brought both the wallet and the news. We're very grateful."

"It is nothing," Senet answered, resting her hands on her knees after having kept her fingers intertwined in her lap for a long time. "I am glad I could help, if I did."

"You did. I thank you for being so thoughtful – many people would have kept the money in that wallet." Despite Senet's seemingly good intentions, Evelyn was still a little bit suspicious. But the girl's response was nothing like a guilty one.

"As I said, it is nothing," she said simply. "Do not thank me, because I have hardly done anything."

Evelyn shook her head with a smile, and stood up to accompany Senet to the door. After having closed the door, she waited a few seconds, her hand on the wall; then she slowly walked back to the kitchen, leaned against the doorframe, and looked at Alex who was still sitting on his chair, his eyes down.

He looked up, and their eyes met. Two chips of bright blue in a still child-like round face, with soft, rosy cheeks, tender features, and blond hair that was getting a little too long for his mother's liking. He was so beautiful, so sweet, so brave, so bright – the best child in the world, her little boy was.

About two years ago, her heart had shattered in her chest when she had seen him being taken. She'd distinctly felt it break, an overwhelming pang reverberating throughout her body, and the pain had almost caused her to double up. She had barely felt Rick's soaked through embrace at first, her mind in a whirl over three little words, three terrible little words. _My baby's gone_ Her own blood, her very flesh. Eight years, three months and sixteen days of love, joy, wonder, anger, 'Don't pick your nose', playing on the carpet of the living room, afternoon naps, tears, 'I don't wanna go to school!', hugs, kisses, pride, 'What does that symbol mean, Mum?' …

And now he was sitting there, his eyes silently pleading – no, not pleading. Demanding explanations, answers. Her little boy had toughened up;he was less innocent, more aware of the dangers of this world – and others. He'd had to grow up fast while Evelyn and Rick were out exploring the bowels of pyramids too dangerous for Alex to try his luck inside.

Evelyn did not know how he had reacted to being kidnapped, taken brutally from the people who loved him most, and thrown in a train with strange, scary men in red and a decaying but quite powerful mummy. When this had happened to her, what seemed like a very long time ago now, she had been mortally afraid. Even if she had tried to keep on a brave, undaunted façade for the sake of her dignity, she had never felt more scared in her whole life. At that time, she had been almost certain that Jonathan, O'Connell, the curator and the strange tattooed man had fallen at the hands of Imhotep's minions, and she had given up on hope. It was only when the motor of the biplane had resounded above her that hope had flared up inside her again. Rick O'Connell had not abandoned her.

Yes, for as long as she could remember, Rick had always been the rescue party, her knight without shining armour, and although he had never asked for the part and would have gladly turned it down in other circumstances, it was perfectly fitting. He was her fearless hero with a heart of gold, even with his doubts, his fears, and his grumpy mornings.

She loved him, and if it was her turn to save him from danger, then she was going to do it, whatever her own fears and doubts.

She answered Alex's serious, inquisitive stare with a smile, a slow, rueful one.

"Mum? Dad's in serious trouble, isn't he?"

"It would seem so," she replied softly, her head still resting against the frame. "But I can tell you one thing. I'm going to do whatever it takes to get him back."

Alex nodded, his mother's own new-found determination reflected in his eyes. "Don't worry, Mum," he said with a confidence she wished she had too, "Dad's tough. He can take care of himself, and keep an eye on Uncle Jon, too."

She gave a smile, and Alex's face shone from the pleasure of making his mum smile as he continued, "Though it'd be good if we got them out of there quick, before they're in more trouble."

This time, she crossed the room and enveloped her son in a fierce hug, her heart swelling. Her darling boy made her proud ten times a day, as much as he drove her mad, but in those particular circumstances she felt even prouder of him.

This lasted until she felt Alex tap her shoulder, "Mum, lemme go – I can't breathe –" It was untrue, of course, but Evelyn let go of her son, who sat back and straightened his shirt with a dignified air.

When he looked up at her again, she stood up and said, in a firmer voice, "Get your jacket, Alex. We're going out."

She went to pick up her own, and marched down into the hall to put on her shoes again, followed by her son who had positively jumped off his chair. "Where're we going, Mum? Are we gonna help Dad and Uncle Jon?"

"Yes, as soon as we can. For the moment," Evelyn said, her voice now perfectly steady as she opened the door and stepped outside, "we're taking a little trip to the Consulate. It's the last place your uncle went to, after all."

_Who knows …_ Maybe they'd be able to get a few answers there.

Alex trotted past her, and slipped his little hand in hers without a word. She clung to it tightly as they walked.

* * *

"Jonathan? Hey, Jonathan – wake up, nap's over …"

Someone was poking his shoulder, and he hated that. This was the first thing Jonathan was aware of, and his first conscious act was to wonder when it would stop. His body felt like lead, his head like living hell, and there was nothing he wanted more than to slip back into oblivion.

"C'mon, Jonathan, much as I'd like to throw water at ya, I can't, so you'll have to wake up by yourself." A rough hand was shaking him now. _Would you please be so kind as to bugger off, whoever you are!_ his hazy mind yelled, but this, unsurprisingly, had absolutely no effect.

But despite his efforts, he was slowly emerging, gradually growing more conscious of things surrounding him. First thing, it was cold. Not actually very cold, and certainly not freezing, but the contrast was stark in comparison with the heavy heat of the outside, and Jonathan found himself shivering in spite of himself._ Great. I'm in one of the hottest countries in the world, and I manage to get myself a cold. Just bloody perfect._

"Hey, buddy, I refuse to let you scare me – now wake up. Don't make me slap you, I'd not feel quite easy about it, for some unfathomable reasons."

Rick. That low baritone tinged with an unmistakable American drawl could only belong to his brother-in-law. Deciding that perhaps this was worth the effort of opening his eyes, Jonathan proceeded to work on that, all the while trying to gather his memories. What the hell had happened?

When he finally managed to lift his eyelids – they seemed to weigh a metric ton, and the headache that followed was proportional to it – he could more or less make out Rick's features, his hair a light blur in the dark. Then he bent down, and Jonathan could see that he was frowning, looking even slightly worried.

"Well, never thought I'd think that one day, let alone say it, but it's good to have you back," he said, and what was more surprising was that he did seem to mean it. "Dunno what I would've told Evy if … Well. Must have been a helluva blow you took – I came round a while ago."

A blow? Jonathan could remember somebody striking him from behind a few days ago, but it couldn't be the same occasion now … Besides, he'd been with Tommy when …

_Tommy._

The memory of the previous hours came back to him with such force that it felt like he'd suffered another blow on his head. The shock of seeing Tommy aiming a gun at him, after all these years, after all they'd been through in the previous days, after all the laughs and the memories, had been such that it had left him completely winded, his mind blank, unable to move, unable to think. Absolute terror had sometimes seemed to numb him utterly, but this particular sensation – or rather, lack of – was hardly something he'd felt before.

To be honest, it was the closest thing to what he had felt after reading the letter about the death of his parents. Shocked into total blank.

This must have shown on his face, because Rick's eyes narrowed in his direction. "Hey – you okay?"

"Think I'm going to be sick," muttered Jonathan, propping himself up on his elbows and turning his head away. Beside the fact that this gave him a good excuse for avoiding Rick looking at him, he _was_ feeling queasy.

"Whoa, easy there," Rick exclaimed, scrambling a few feet away. "Don't get sick on me just now, I'm rather fond of this suit."

Jonathan snorted despite the nausea. If the way Alex reminded people of Rick was unsettling, the opposite was just as true.

"Better now?"

"Yes, thanks." He sat up slowly and gazed around. The room they were in looked like some kind of cell, only not the average literature dungeon cell with damp stonewalls, stone floor, straw mattress thrown in the corner, and rats to gnaw at your feet. The walls were made of whitewashed stone, the floor was quite dry, and even with the massive, daunting door, it looked more like somebody's cellar than a cell to imprison two people. "What on earth is this?"

"Our brand new apartment for the while, it seems," deadpanned Rick, following his gaze across the room. Jonathan shook his head, a slight smirk lifting the corner of his mouth in spite of himself.

"Why can't you bloody Americans say 'flat', like everybody else?"

"There's no way I'm letting myself get colonised," retorted Rick, his grin flashing white teeth in the dark. There was a short silence, made a little more comfortable by the return of their usual bantering. At least, it was something familiar, and for a second, Jonathan half-expected Evy to tut-tut at them and tell them to behave.

But that was simply not happening. Evy must now be home, with Alex, probably wondering what was taking Rick and him so long, while the two of them were kept in an empty cellar which didn't even have wine in it. On second thoughts, though … Jonathan did not really feel like drinking just now. Blood was throbbing against his ears, and it was very annoying. Not to mention that his whole head felt rather like a gong.

"Bloody hell. If we ever get out of here, I'm not drinking for a week. Not risking a hangover after this."

Rick stared at him, one light-brown eyebrow raised quizzically. "Never thought I'd live long enough to hear that from you." Jonathan gingerly rested his head against the wall, closing his eyes with a slight smile of his own.

"Things do change, my good son."

"Certainly looks so. If they didn't, Evy or Alex would have been kidnapped, some stuff would have happened with a random object linked with whatever Ancient Egyptian legend, Ardeth would've turned up, and we'd be on our way to save them."

"Good summary." Something crossed Jonathan's mind. "Ardeth did turn up, by the way. We bumped into him yesterday, at the bazaar. Didn't Alex tell you?"

"Now that you mention it, yeah, he did –" Rick frowned, then nodded with a grin. "He told me that he'd scared the hell out of you."

"Whatever. So, Ardeth turning up, the diamond stolen … Two down on your list already. If you're not careful, I'm afraid that you're going to have to save the world again, my dear brother-in-law."

"Yeah," Rick said with a chuckle that shook his broad shoulders slightly, "right." He looked down for a second, then fixed his eyes on Jonathan curiously. "You know, when I said I'd never thought that someday I'd say it's good to have you back, I meant it. And don't make me repeat that."

"Rick, if you're going to get sentimental on me, only talk in long, complicated sentences I have absolutely no hope of understanding right now."

The American let out something that sounded halfway between a snort and an annoyed sigh, "Wiseass."

There was a silence, then he turned his head to Jonathan and blurted out, "I'm glad you're not dead. You're family, y'know."

This surprised Jonathan. A lot. Not only what Rick had just said, but also the very fact that he'd actually said it.

It reminded him of something, a conversation with Evy a few months after the events of Ahm Shere – he'd caught a pretty nasty cold at the time that had forced him to stay in bed for a few days, and Evy had been lovely with him, bringing him steaming toddies and everything. So when she'd pestered him about personal stuff, he'd finally answered for once. But as his sister had a knack for turning the simplest matters into complicated issues, he had tried to keep it as simple as possible.

"_Now that you're cornered, maybe you'll tell me why you've been looking a bit off-colour recently_."

"_Mmh. May I remind you why I'm stuck here instead of –_"

"_Don't take me for a idiot, Jonathan, I wasn't talking about your cold. You've been looking a bit odd, at times, since we returned from Egypt_." She had frowned. He had repressed a laugh. She always wrinkled her nose when she frowned.

"_Is that a sister's prerogative to badger the poor chap sick in his bed?_" His attempt at a joke failed miserably, and he'd made a mental note to pull it off better next time. Being sick tended to make his standards fall. Evy had shaken her head, looking almost as determined as she was when about to decipher some complex hieroglyphs.

"_No, but it's a sister's prerogative to worry about her brother sometimes. So, what's bugging you?_"

"_ 'Bugging'? This is hardly a choice of words I'd expect coming from my dear, sweet, innocent baby sister_."

"_Knock it off, Jonathan._" That had made him raise his eyebrows. It was rather refreshing, and sounded really funny coming from her. "_Is it something I've said or done? Or something Rick's –_"

"_No, Rick's got nothing to do with it – crikey, Evy, you've no idea how stubborn you can be most of the time –_" He'd stopped suddenly to sneeze, then blinked, rubbed his nose and looked at his sister to finish his sentence, "_– and how it can be infuriating. Well, it's nothing, really – just the thing that the three of you do have a knack for making me feel like the fourth side of the pyramid, sometimes_."

Evy had stared at him for a few seconds, the look in her bright eyes surprised, soft, and amused at once. He could still remember the smile that had dawned on her face as she said, "_Jonathan … There _are_ four sides to a pyramid. And it simply could not stand if the fourth side wasn't there_."

He'd just stared at her without a word, eyes slightly widened.

Just like he was staring now at his brother-in-law. However, he knew better than to press the matter further.

"Well, thanks, old boy – I'm glad they didn't cosh your head to death, too," he said rather uncertainly, risking a small lopsided grin.

And this settled the subject. The two men went back to staring at the door opposite.

Then Rick let out a small laugh. "This just ain't right. I'm supposed to be the rescue party, not the rescued."

It sounded so absurd – and Rick was probably aware of it – that Jonathan couldn't help a little sarcasm.

"Who says we'll need to be rescued? Maybe the 'chief creepy bloke' will simply open the door, tell us 'Oh, it's all been a big mistake, I'm sorry' and kick us out."

"As I said before," said the American in a deliberately drawling tone of voice, "yeah. _Right_."

His brother-in-law chuckled. Then, without a warning, Rick got up and walked a few steps toward the door.

"You know," he said, looking thoughtful, "once I read some freaky book about a guy who wakes up one morning, and the police come to his bedroom to take him into a jail, and he doesn't know why …"

"Kafka? _The Trial_?"

"Yeah, that's it, that's the one. He constantly asks why they've imprisoned him, what he's done wrong, but nobody answers him straightaway. The officers are always very polite and everything, but in the end they stab him to death, like, you know, an execution, and he never knows why he's dead."

"I've read that one, too." Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. "It crept me out like no other book did." _Trust Rick to lighten the atmosphere_ Now he was getting a tad afraid that their fate might be similar to that poor fellow from Kafka's book.

_Damn him._

"What's that you've said, just now?" asked Rick, apparently not noticing Jonathan's growing unease. "About those guys saying 'It's all a big mistake, now get out of here'?"

"What about it?"

"Well, either it's true, or they've finally decided what to do with us. I hear footsteps coming."

Jonathan stood up as well, and leaned against the wall, holding his breath, while Rick stood near the door, cracking his knuckles.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"I'm gettin' ready. If there're not too many of them, we can get away by knocking a guy out and using him as a shield. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Are you utterly and completely mad! They've got guns, for cripes' sake! _We_, on the other hand, do _not_!"

"Yeah." Rick gave a shrug, not moving from his spot. "So what?" So very Rick – an explosive mix of sheer heroism and sheer imbecility.

"Rick, you can't just –"

They heard the sound of a key turning in its lock, and the door opened – just a tiny bit. Just enough to let in the barrel of a long gun. Which was pointed right toward Rick's stomach.

Jonathan's blood turned to ice. _I was right. Of course I was right. Hell, why does nobody ever listen to me when I'm right?_

Fury burning in his bright blue eyes, Rick slowly took a few steps back. The door opened, and the man behind the gun walked in, followed by another who wore a similar suit, and … Tommy.

Instead of the numbing shock that had taken over him a few hours earlier, this time Jonathan felt something quite different. It felt like pins and needles tenfold increased, and his head seemed to spin for a little while.

Tommy went over to him, avoiding looking at Rick, and stood in front of him, his face pale and sad. "Jon … I'm – I'm so sorry, mate, I'm really sorry … But I didn't have a choice …"

" 'S not what I've heard," muttered Jonathan, through clenched teeth – his jaw had seemed to be locked until now. One half of him was shaking with mind-freezing terror, and the other half was shaking with a hot fury such as he'd never felt before. And this last half was gradually overcoming the fear.

Tommy shook his head, and took another step forward, his voice pleading, "Please, Jon, you don't understand … You must let me explain –"

_Wham!_

Before Jonathan could realise what he'd done, Tommy was sprawled on the ground, dazed and his hair in an even messier state than it had been, and Rick, still covered by the first man's gun, was staring at him in a way that was all at once disbelieving, ironically impressed, and amused. And then he felt the cold metal of a gun's barrel pressed against his temple.

Terror immediately supplanted anger. He squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace, and wished that it'd be quick.

If anything, it was indeed quick. One split second later, he heard someone shouting "No!" and the barrel was removed from his head. Feeling that it should be safe now to open his eyes, Jonathan did just that, and saw with a certain amazement that Tommy had got back on his feet in a flash and pinned the gunman's arm to the wall.

There was something he must have missed. Gingerly massaging his sore knuckles, he stared at Tommy who released the man, looking both shaken and angry.

"Never do that again!" Tommy yelled at the underling in black, who didn't so much as flinch.

"Sir, he'd just –"

"Never mind that! No harm comes to them, hear me?"

The man looked annoyed. "I just thought that –"

Tommy cut him off with an angry gesture, "Is anyone working here paid for thinking, do you think? _I_ don't!"

Now the black-clad fellow looked beyond annoyance. In fact, as Rick would undoubtedly have put it, he looked royally pissed off.

But Tommy didn't appear to care much. He turned to Jonathan, seemed about to say something, then looked away, rubbing his tender jaw. The two underlings holstered their guns and walked to the door, signalling with a nod that it was time to go.

Before Tom crossed the threshold, he lifted up his eyes for a moment to stare at his former friend straight in the face.

"Jon …"

Jonathan did not know what he looked like, but his eyes were burning and his jaw was clenched so tight that it hurt. Tommy held his gaze for a few seconds, then shook his head and turned away, closing the door behind him without a word.

The silence that followed was thicker than lead. Every muscle in Jonathan's face relaxed as one, and he looked down, his hands in his pockets and his heart in his throat.

Then there was the sound of footfall, and he found himself looking down no longer at the floor, but at a pair of thick, dark brown shoes.

"That was impressive," came Rick's low voice, tinged with something unusual that his brother-in-law failed to decipher, "for a Brit. Especially a Brit like you."

Jonathan gave a nod, one eyebrow shooting up, his face still downcast. He saw Rick's shoes move to his left, and his baritone came again, somewhat lacking its usual jauntiness. "Okay, I must admit that there's some potential in your right, but it could get much better. C'mon, look – hey, look up – yeah, that's it. I'll show ya."

Intrigued in spite of himself, Jonathan lifted his gaze from Rick's shoes to his face. The latter had raised one fist and now proceeded to demonstrate the mechanics of a punch. "Close your fist tightly, otherwise you're gonna break a couple of fingers, and I'm not sure you want that. Right," he said as Jonathan stared at him curiously, "now you've got this circular movement from behind to your left. And ya gotta reach really far behind – your hit'll be more powerful. In the end you aim for a point between the cheekbone and the chin, and, well … pray to God you won't miss."

Rick finished on a slight grin, and Jonathan nodded again, a small smile pulling reluctantly at one corner of his mouth. It was not necessarily in the middle of a fight that he definitely did _not_ regret having Rick O'Connell as a brother-in-law. The man was truly a decent bloke. That was growing rarer and rarer these days.

"Thanks, Rick. I'll keep this lesson in mind – it was very helpful."

" 'Helpful'?" A light-brown eyebrow shot up. Jonathan put on his best innocent face.

"Yes … 'helpful'." There was a rather long silence, then the Englishman looked down with a wince, "Blimey, it hurts."

Rick's face darkened. "Dunno what to say, buddy. What that bastard did –"

"No, I mean my hand. Hurts like hell."

"Oh." An awkward pause. "That's just 'cause you're not used to it. It'll wear off with time."

"I suppose so." Rick was right, of course. But Jonathan had a hunch that it would take a little while to wear off. Whatever he was alluding to.

The two men resumed their places on the ground, backs against the wall, and silence fell for a long while. Despite the grim-looking situation, the atmosphere was relatively comfortable, and Jonathan had to admit that Rick's silent presence had a great deal to do with it. He wasn't sure how, or even why, but his little demonstration had really helped to cheer him up, absurd as it might sound. As he stared at the door opposite, he realised that he was glad not to be alone in this bloody mess. Whatever was in store for them, they would face it together, and he clung to this thought, deliberately ignoring the dull apprehension that gnawed at his stomach.

All the while trying not to think about Evy's reaction when she found out what had happened.

* * *

"You don't understand – I absolutely must see someone!"

The guard shook his head wearily, "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but there's nuthin' I can do – there's nobody 'ere but me and th' caretaker. Everybody's gone earlier, it's Saturday, y'know."

Evelyn bit her lip. "Look, my husband and my brother have disappeared, and I have reason to think they might be in danger as we speak. Is there really nothing you can do?"

"No, Ma'am, 's much as I'd like to," sighed the old guard. "I've not seen yer brother, I take my service at half past seven. Who was he s'pposed to see today?"

"A man called Hamilton," Alex cut in with his firm little voice. "And he's friends with Tom Ferguson, he works here."

"Hamilton and Ferguson, you said? Sorry, lad, I've never heard of 'em."

Evelyn opened her mouth, winded, but she pulled herself together swiftly. "Are you quite sure? Thomas Ferguson, broad-shouldered, average height, with blond hair and brown eyes?"

The guard thought for a few seconds, then his little eyes widened slightly in recognition, "Oh, yeah, I see! Harry – he's the day guard – he told me about a couple of odd things going on 'ere … Helped move in boxes an' stuff into empty offices, and there was some fellers he didn' know walkin' down the corridors. Your Ferguson mus' be one o'them."

Odd things going on … Unused offices suddenly filled with boxes … Evelyn just didn't understand. Who could be influential enough to take all these pains just to set up what appeared to be an act?

"That's all I know, Mrs O'Connell, 'm sorry I can' tell ya more about it," said the old guard sadly. "All I can suggest, if you'll allow me, 's that you get back home with th' young lad 'ere, and wait 'til morning. At least you won' be in th' dark anymore."

"Yes," said Evelyn thoughtfully, more to herself than to the guard, "it'll be daylight tomorrow." She gave him a goodbye smile, and walked off, holding Alex by the hand.

Alex, who still trotted beside her, looked flabbergasted. "C'mon, Mum, we can't just go home like that! What about Dad and Uncle Jon? There must be something that –"

"Indeed, there must, and I'm sure there is," replied his mother firmly. "But we're going home first. You've got to get some sleep."

" 'You'? What d'you mean? What about you?"

"I'm going over to Dr Hakim's. Something tells me that Rick, Jonathan and Mr Ferguson being taken two days after the theft of the Diamond of Ahm Shere is not quite innocent."

Alex stopped, and stared at his mother, his mouth slightly open. "Are you sure?"

"No." Evelyn gazed into space, her anxiousness taking over for a short while. "But I do think it's worth asking."

"Yeah, I suppose." Alex nodded, then pouted. "Mum, I'm not sleepy at all. It's not fair to send me to bed like a kid."

"Alex, much as I resent colloquialisms, you _are_ a 'kid'. And I am your mum."

"Mum, please, I'm worried too! Come on! I can't just stay in bed while my dad's been kidnapped by bad guys! D'you think he would?"

Despite everything her motherly instinct was screaming at her, Evelyn had to admit that her boy had a point. His father would never, ever stay put had a member of the family been taken. She just knew that, if Rick had not been the one in danger, he would have done anything to save them. Just what she had vowed to do, and Alex seemed to take after his father in _many_ ways.

As Alex stared at her intently, Evelyn sighed. This was not going to be easy.

* * *

As my first beta said, Alex is one tough cookie, isn't he :o)

Oh, the reference to the _Blues Brothers_ was in fact the hilarious line (for which I'm sorry I can't take credit for), "Our Lady of the Blessed Acceleration, don't fail me now!" I usually don't quote films like that, but I love the film so much – and it just seemed really appropriate :o)

Wow, I got so many reviews! Rock'n'roll, baby :D

**_Lucky Fannah:_** oh dear, I hope you've still got fingernails left – to claw at me when I've left you all with a nasty, cruel cliffhanger :o) Thanks for the enthusiasm, I really appreciated it; and I'm very glad that you, being something of a torture expert ;D liked the Tommy-turning-traitor scene. It was a wrench writing it, I assure you, because I like Tom very much, and my fingers shook a tiny little bit when writing the scene. Rick's POV was perfect for a scene like that, and I had as much fun writing it as writing Rick and Jon's scene in this chapter. Thanks :o)

**_Eris:_** thanks very much! Do you mean Indiana Jones as in the famous warehouse scene at the end of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_? Because that's more or less what I had in mind. And as Senet said early on in this one, I'm afraid the 'kidnappers' are all regular British people – although you'll still have to wait a bit for their motivations to be revealed :o) Thanks for the comment about Jon's 'voice'. It doesn't happen very often, but sometimes I get the impression that he's speaking the lines :o) Don't call for the men in white… Haven't we al l:o)

**_adele:_** thanks :o) Hope that was quick enough!

**_EggSalad:_** I had a hunch you _might_ mind Tommy's little deed after all, dear. _Thank you for your review/s!_ :o) Really, this is the perfect cure for a bad day, and I was having kind of one when I received your review, so thanks a bunch for it. Your comment about Tommy reduced me to a mushy heap of aww… do you really mean it? Because if you do, that's saying something. Of course, it's not like he has as much competition as original female characters have; there are not that many good original male characters in TM fandom, principally I think because the writers want so much Ardeth to get the girl that a male character on the same level as the TM characters would get a bit in their way. But you see, one of the reasons I love Jon so much is that he's the average chap, and I love average. You get more complications with average, more humour too generally, and I love humour :o) So I asked meself, whom Jon would be friends with during university? And I mean friends, not just acquaintances. That's when Tommy took shape. All I had to do was finding him an average, but nice name, and Bob's your uncle.

As for Elizabeth Ferguson… You might be onto something there :o) We'll find out a bit more about her very soon. Promise. :o)

**_lilylynn:_** thanks:o) Both for the comments and the A, I really appreciated that :D Thank you very much for reviewing since the first chapter, too – does it mean that you're still interested in finding out what happens next :o)

**_SilentTrainConductor:_** Don't be sorry, especially about not reviewing. I'm something of a lurker myself, and I know what RL can be like, so don't worry – your reviews are always very welcome, whenever they come :o) As for Tommy… well, a good poker player _always_ has something up his sleeve, hasn't he :D

Much of love, and see you next chapter :o)


	8. Obscured by Clouds

**Author's Notes:** _Obscured by Clouds_ is, if my memory's right, the title of a rather long instrumental piece by Pink Floyd, on the album of the same name I think. Good reading!

_Side note_: it's so funny to get into the mind of a character who thinks the opposite of you for certain matters. I, for instance, adore tea. Just so that you don't accuse me of tea-baiting :D

Dis_, as always: No, I don't own the characters starring in _The Mummy_ and/or _The Mummy Returns_. Wouldn't want to, either – I'd rather they just came to my house and have a cup of tea or something. Honest :D Oh yeah, I created Dr Fahad Hakim, and Tom Ferguson, whom I'm rather fond of, in spite of everything he's done/been doing/will do. And EggSalad said he was one of the best original character she'd seen. Wooh boy :o)_

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 8: Obscured by Clouds_**

"If I knew where we're being forced to stay, I'd complain to a responsible person. The service leaves much to be desired if you ask me, and I've never drunk such a God-awful tea."

"That might be 'cause this is coffee, Jonathan."

A pause, long enough for Rick to lift his eyes from his cup and raise an eyebrow at his brother-in-law. Although the Englishman's expression didn't change, his slightly slanted eyes seemed to be smirking.

"That explains it, then."

Rick downed the last remnants of his cup in one gulp, refraining from rolling his eyes. Those Brits. Never happy without their sacrosanct cup of tea after a meal. For eleven years now he had been living in England, but no matter how hard he'd tried to take on this weird habit, if only for Evy's sake, he could never, ever get used to it.

Unfortunately, for him English coffee was simply a disgrace to the name.

Still, he and Jonathan were pretty lucky that whoever was keeping them in this cellar-like room had thought of sending them food. And drink. Although Rick really had to admit that he had seldom tasted anything as insipid as this stuff. Even back in England.

At least the smell of the now-empty plates was gone, as one anonymous Oddball had come a few minutes earlier to take the empty trays away, leaving only the cup Rick had not finished yet.

That said, his stomach was full, which was something. Between leaving the orphanage and meeting Evelyn, Rick had had a taste of a small number of prisons. In each one that he had had the misfortune of staying in, very few wardens had ever sent him a tray of food. Usually, if they ever did, the food looked as if it had been there for a week. Or more.

"You shouldn't complain about the food, really," he called over his shoulder to Jonathan, all the while making himself as comfortable as possible on the floor and crossing his arms behind his head. "Be happy they bothered to send us some. Even if it was lousy."

The noise he got as an answer sounded halfway between a sniff and a snort, but he didn't hear Jonathan change position. His brother-in-law had not moved from his spot against the wall since Ferguson left, and even if he seemed to be reverting back to his old self, there was still something on his face that bothered Rick. It was like a remnant of the haunted, peculiar sort of look he'd gotten when Ferguson had pointed that gun at him in the afternoon, and Rick could not help the peculiar feeling that this was completely out-of-place. As he'd said to Evy, he wasn't particularly fond of Jonathan, but for all his faults, his brother-in-law was a pretty decent guy. Besides, he _was_ part of the family after all. Anyway, nobody should ever get that look on their face. Nobody. Ever.

Although Rick was never good at voicing concern or suchlike to anyone that wasn't Evy, he had tried, earlier, to ask Jonathan if he'd sort of gotten over it a bit.

"Oh, don't worry, Rick, old chap," had come the reply. "I'm fine. I'm an Englishman, remember – Ye Olde stiff upper lip and all that stuff."

And that had been about all Rick had to make do with.

Since Jonathan did not, for once, seem keen on making conversation, Rick was left to his own grim thoughts. This could either be taken as a good thing – no risk of boredom – or a bad thing – as if the situation wasn't glum enough – but anyway, he had much to think about … Like who the hell were those men and why they had taken the two of them.

He didn't know exactly what sort of part had been Ferguson's in this, but it sure looked like he was mixed up in it up to his neck. Mixed up, but not at the head of things, though, as even though Rick had seen him give orders earlier to the two gunmen, the chief Oddball from the black Lincoln had not spoken about him the way an inferior in rank would.

One thing was certain, though. If Ferguson belonged to the real British Antique Research Department, then Rick O'Connell was a six-year old ballerina girl.

Then again, according to what Evy had told him, Ferguson had been knocked out cold in the diamond's room just as Jonathan had.

Rick shook his head. The more he thought about it, the more obvious it became. Even if he could not explain it, he had a growing feeling that this damn diamond was at the core of things. Everything bad that had happened since their arrival had come right after the robbery at the Museum.

If the diamond thing and their kidnapping were linked, as Rick was starting to believe, then there had to be some kind of organisation behind both deeds. He didn't know who was behind this bunch of spooky weirdoes in black, but it was not Ferguson. The American's gut instincts had very rarely deceived him, and he had a hunch that the means displayed meant a great influence, which Ferguson didn't seem to have. A great influence always meant great power. And Rick had long ago noticed that the more power some people had, the more power they sought.

According to what he knew about the guy, and what he had seen of him so far, Ferguson did not seem to be this kind of man.

Rick had been fairly surprised at Ferguson's reaction when that Oddball had cocked his gun against Jonathan's temple. It had all happened very quickly: the punch, his own amazed but amused blink, and Ferguson's bewildered look from the ground … Then there had been something that had felt like an icy hand grasping at his guts as the black-clad man's gun flew to Jonathan's head. The look on the gunman's face had actually sent a chill – a slight one, but a chill all the same – up Rick's spine. He knew the kind, for having met a few like this in the Legion. This was a man who was just doing his job. His gesture had been a professional's reaction. And Rick knew for certain that he would have pulled the trigger in perfect cold blood had Ferguson not leapt on his feet and pushed the gun away in a heartbeat.

Either Ferguson had received very strict orders, or else there was still a part of the lousy traitor that cared about his old buddy's – or rather 'mate's', as those damn Brits ever seemed to make a point of doing nothing like everybody else, least of all talk – life.

A half, – a pretty small one, his own optimistic half – of Rick preferred to choose the second option. But as for the realistic half of himself, and what logical rationality he had had rubbed off on him from Evy, both were possible, the first surely more so than the last.

Rick blinked at the blank ceiling, wondering what to make of all this stuff. One thing was for sure: he didn't want, for all the world, to be in his brother-in-law's shoes right now. He'd felt pretty pissed off each time that little scumbag called Beni had let him down, even if in the long run he had grown rather used to it, but at least Beni had never played the 'best of buddies' act convincingly. Sure, they'd had a few good times in the Legion, and a few good scares too, but there was never anything personal involved. Beni had made Rick know that the American couldn't count on him, and things had worked out quite fine that way.

Funny to see how things turned out eventually. From the first second he had seen Ferguson, Rick had had a feeling that the two Brits weren't friends for nothing – although they didn't resemble each other physically, they shared not only a bunch of memories and the same nationality, but also the same sense of humour, a certain ironical take on life … And a fondness for that undrinkable British beverage that could only be explained by blood legacy. That, plus scotch.

Well, with all their common traits and everything, Rick would have thought that whatever friendship united them would last. At least a bit.

_Guess I was wrong._

Rick shifted slightly on the floor. Beside the fact that he didn't like forced silence that much, he was slowly but surely getting bored stiff. And tired.

"Hey, Jonathan?" he called over his shoulder. As nobody answered, he said with a lopsided grin, "Lazy bum. Sleepin' already, are ya?"

He got no reply, and propped himself up on his elbows to see if everything was all right behind him. It seemed so, as he observed with a smile that was not entirely a smirk: Jonathan was sound asleep, still sitting with his back against the wall, his chin resting on his chest. He was even snoring slightly.

"Right," Rick mumbled with a small laugh. "Thanks for the company." As his brother-in-law didn't bother to reply – he really was asleep, after all – the American put his head back on the floor, and went back to staring at the ceiling. "Well, even if you're out of it and all, I'm sure you'll agree with me – we really are behind the eightball."

"Pardon me ?"

Rick gave a great start, which was quite a feat considering the fact that he was lying flat with his back on the ground. There was a reason for that. The voice he'd just heard had absolutely nothing to do with his brother-in-law's. He didn't know where it had come from. Or even who was its owner.

The only certain thing was that it belonged to a woman.

"Who are you? And where the hell are you?" asked Rick, sitting straight and alert, now fully awake. He peered across the room, his eyes squinting and his brows furrowing. To no avail. It still appeared that he and Jonathan were the only occupants of the cell.

He used to believe in ghosts when he was a little kid – because the older kids at the orphanage always liked to scare the younger ones with stories. Then he'd grown out of it. Sure, there were some unexplained forces in this world, but dead people generally stayed dead.

Of course, his first encounter with Hamunaptra had made him revise his judgement. On his second one, having seen what he'd seen, he had kept his eye out for anything – _anything_ – unlike Evelyn, who used to reject every irrational theory outright.

Rick's opinion about strange happenings had been last updated at Ahm Shere. Walking, talking mummies existed, as did fierce little green pygmies, and Jonathan's common sense – though this last one was occasional.

Ghosts do not.

"There's no need to be rude, sir," came the voice. There was something sad in it, and it sounded altogether rather like a sigh – mixed with an undeniable British accent. What on Earth could a British ghost possibly be doing down there ?

"I'm just an unfortunate neighbour. I'm talking to you through this little air vent down the wall. Can you see it?"

_So much for ghosts_. Rick looked past the sleeping Englishman, spotted the vent and walked over to it. "Yeah, got it."

The vent was so small that he was not surprised he had missed it at first. Rather happy to see that rationality was kicking back in – and trying not to think about Evy's triumphant 'I told you so!' if she'd been there –, Rick sat in front of it, trying to make out something on the other side of the wall. His attempt failed. The vent was too tiny, and the room was definitely too dark. "Who are you, and what are you doin' here?"

"Is _this_ your way to introduce yourself?" Despite the conceited words, the woman's tone was more tired than stuck-up. Actually, that made her sound like she had been in there for a long time. On the other hand, Evy had something like that in her voice when she would wake up early in the morning. "Well, I suppose that I must introduce myself first. I'm Elizabeth Ferguson, and –"

"Ferguson? Wait –" Rick frowned, every imaginary alarm bell starting to ring in his mind. "Is Tom Ferguson your husband or brother or –"

"Tom is my husband, yes … Have you seen him recently? Is he all right?"

Mrs Ferguson's voice did not sound stuck-up anymore, but laced with fear and concern. But fear and concern could be easily faked. In fact, Rick was torn between lashing out at the woman and ask her again what the hell she was doing there while her husband was the one that had gotten the two of them in a cell for no apparent reason; and sympathising with her for having married such an arsehole. He picked none and forced his voice into an even tone.

"Oh, he's fine, all right … and yes, I saw him recently. Look, this may come as a shock to you, but –"

"How do you know him, anyway? I certainly do not know _you_." Mistrust was suddenly plain in Mrs Ferguson's low voice, although it still sounded tired. Pushing back his impatience, Rick rolled his eyes and bent closer to the air vent.

"Of course you don't know me – I didn't know your husband a week ago. But my brother-in-law did. Now may I –"

"Who are you? What's your name?"

Now the woman was really ticking him off. Wishing she would let him finish his sentence this time, Rick said slowly, trying not to show too much of his annoyance, "Right. I'm O'Connell – Rick O'Connell. Been locked up in here for a couple of hours, and your husband's the reason why I'm here and not at home with my wife and kid. How's that for an answer?"

There was silence on the other side of the wall, long enough to make Rick feel a little bad about his somewhat harsh reply. If what this woman had been saying so far was the truth, she apparently did not wish to be there any more than he did, and he'd just gone and thrown this piece of news right into her face. After all, she could not really help it if her husband was a traitorous bastard.

Ah, well. Evelyn had often enough teased him on his somewhat rough manners with women sometimes. All the while keeping a close and fierce eye on every girl that fluttered her eyelashes at him too much: small, rare displays of jealousy Rick liked not just a little bit.

"Look, Mrs Ferguson, I didn't mean to lash out like that – it's just that I'm pretty angry. I mean, your husband's a friend of my brother-in-law's. The two of them went to the Museum and they were in the Diamond of Ahm Shere's room when it was stolen –"

"Hold – hold on, Mr O'Connell," cut in Mrs Ferguson, in a rather subdued voice. "Do you mean the Cairo Museum? And what is this diamond you're referring to?"

Once more, Rick was sorely tempted not to trust her. She could very well be faking ignorance. Then again, she was the only person he could talk to at this very moment – and he knew better than to lose time trying to wake Jonathan. The man's sleep could be as deep as death.

"There was this big diamond from Ancient Egypt in the Museum of Antiquities, and Jonathan and your Tom got knocked on the head while it was stolen –"

"I take it that this Jonathan is your brother-in-law?"

Rick rolled his eyes. "Do you always stop people from finishing their sentences? Yes, he's my wife's brother."

"I'm sorry, Mr O'Connell," came Mrs Ferguson's sheepish voice. "I do not do this often, but I tend to when I'm afraid." A pause. "And I must confess I'm somewhat afraid right now."

All right. So maybe she was being sincere after all.

"I used to know a Jonathan, you know," she continued, and if Rick's ears weren't deceiving him yet, she was smiling slightly. "When I was in university. He and Tom were rather close friends at the time, and we used to meet at the local Bar Oz to chat and drink … I have very fond memories of those times. What's your brother-in-law's surname?"

"Carnahan." He heard a tired, but happy little laugh. "Is he the Jonathan you were talking about?"

"Yes, he's the very same one. How is he now?"

"Well, he's …" Rick glanced behind him. "He's asleep."

There was silence on the other side of the wall, followed by a slight ruffle as Mrs Ferguson came closer to the air vent. "Jonathan Carnahan is here? In the same room as you?"

"Yep."

"And he's … asleep?"

"That's right."

For a few seconds Mrs Ferguson was silent, then she asked, her voice subdued again and puzzled, "Would you be so kind as to tell me exactly what happened to land the both of you in here?"

Rick pondered answering her for a little while. He looked into the space in front of him, then at the sleeping form of his brother-in-law, then at the air vent. Finally, he scratched the back of his neck and came closer to the vent. "Okay. I'll try to make it short, but make yourself comfortable still – you never know. And tell me when you fall asleep."

* * *

"Alex, dear, are you sure you're not sleepy?" 

"No, Mum, I'm _not_. Please, stop asking me that." Alex shook his head conspicuously for effect, and his mother squeezed his hand briefly, not slowing down her pace.

It was not entirely true – Alex was conscious that he was blinking a little too much than he should, and he was forced to admit that his head felt a bit heavy. But there was no way he'd admit this to his mum. Even at this hour in the evening, he had his pride. Besides, concern for his dad and uncle was mingled with the beginning of excitement. He had not had a real adventure in ages, and this sure looked like the start of a hell of a one.

Although Cairo by night was certainly quite some adventure by itself. It was different, much creepier then than in the dazzle of the day. Everything appeared to be a threat: the drop in temperature, the small white houses all turned a similar dark grey, the rough pavements only lit by the little pools of bleak yellow light falling from the street lamps, the lengthened shadows stretching over the walls and the streets … And you had to be extra careful to avoid the heaps of camel droppings when they were a little too close to the pavements.

Alex O'Connell had found himself looking into the newly-acquired eyes of the mummy Imhotep. He had faced a fierce, red-clad warrior who would have taken sheer delight in strangling him. He had resurrected his mother at the Pyramid of Ahm Shere. Without exaggerating too much, he could consider himself a fairly brave boy of ten.

Yet there was still a big part of him that wanted to cling at his mum's hand and not let go as the both of them trotted along the darkened, colder streets.

"Don't worry, Alex." His mum's voice made him look from the dark in front of him up to her face. "There's nothing to fear in moments like these if you keep your head and hug the walls."

_How could she possibly …?_ Alex shrugged and shook his head. Maybe this thing about mums knowing everything was true, after all.

"What are we gonna do exactly, Mum?" he asked, keeping his voice as low as possible. "Are we just going over to Dr Hakim's, pelt his shutters with pebbles, and he'll come down to open the door?"

She slowed down and looked at him, the expression on her face difficult to tell for sure in the dark. "Now where did you get this idea from?"

Alex hoped that his innocent smile was as efficient lit by dim street lamps as it was in the light of day. Over the years, he had observed that both his dad and uncle usually got away with almost anything with his mum with charm. As the two of them were quite different, Alex would only have to pick which tactic would be best for the occasion. Now, at the ripe age of ten years and one month, he had fairly well mastered a get-away smile of his own, something which he was rather proud of. And the best thing was that it worked with all three members of his family – most of the time.

It was his mother's turn to shake her head, and Alex knew he had won this one when he saw a smile on her face. No matter what happened, his mum always smiled in the end, and this was one of the things that he loved most about her. Not all the other mums were like that. "Bah. I don't want to know."

They had left the old city, and were now walking along better-lit streets of smoother pavements. The light made the houses appear less dark, and you could actually see fifty feet ahead of you. Clearly the neighbourhood was a little bit wealthier and better-kept than the ones they'd been crossing so far, even if it still felt spooky and very eerie to be there by night.

As they walked past houses, Evelyn counted the numbers on the letterboxes, finally stopping in front of a rather plain-looking façade and heading decidedly to the door.

"I hope he's not gone to bed already, or he'll be quite cranky, I'm afraid," Alex heard her mutter, before she rapped at the door. "Dr Hakim? It's me, Evelyn O'Connell … I apologise for coming over so late, but the matter is important … Would you please let me in?" Nobody answered, and Evelyn came closer to the closed door, looking hesitant. "Dr Hakim? Are you awake at all? I swear this is serious –"

The door opened on her last word, and both she and Alex opened their mouth in surprise.

"The matter must be important indeed, to make you come here at this hour of the night, alone, with young Alexander, no less," came the deep, gently lilting voice of Ardeth Bay.

"It's good to see you, Ardeth," said Evelyn eventually, after she recovered from her surprise. The Medjai leader's smile mirrored her own.

"It is always good to see you too, although the circumstances are sometimes rather unfitting for old friends' reunions. Please come in."

Evelyn did so, followed by Alex who, even if he wasn't going to admit it, _was_ rather happy to leave the cold, dark streets.

They walked up a flight of narrow stairs to find themselves on the threshold of an old-fashioned door, which Ardeth opened for them before slipping quietly behind them. The first thing Alex did was, as his dad had taught him, to peer across the room, in order to both simply know it better and look out for possible dangers. Most of the time, when they were on a dig, Mum and Dad left Alex in the entrance room of a pyramid, where he did not risk heat-stroke. However, upon crossing a threshold, Rick never failed to scan the room before setting a foot in it, something Alex had taken on quickly after seeing what could happen if one was not careful enough in a pyramid.

The room was flooded with warm yellow light, quite unlike the cold street lamps, and looked quite cosy with the thick carpet on the floor, the deep armchairs around a low table, and the exposed beams across the ceiling. Sure enough – this was the Cairo Museum curator's house, after all – an imposing library full of old-looking books covered one part of the wall, and further in the room stood a big, quite tidy desk with all sorts of stuff on it, ranging from maps to paper clips through an impressive collection of pen holders.

But the comparison with any ordinary house stopped here: there was Ancient Egyptian stuff all over the room, going from framed pieces of parchments hung on the walls, to canopic jars neatly arranged on a chest of drawers, through various-sized statuettes on the shelves of the library, and chests in the corners. There was even a small sarcophagus against one wall. Looking at it, and at the various items filling the room, Alex wondered how it was possible that none of these remains had caused any catastrophe at the time of their removal. Like raising an evil mummy, for example.

Dr Hakim rose from his armchair to greet Evelyn and Alex as Ardeth closed the door behind him. "Good evening, Mrs O'Connell, please do take a seat. You are welcome to do so as well, young Master O'Connell."

"Thanks," said Alex with a quick, rather uncertain glance at the severe-looking man. He watched as Ardeth sat in the armchair beside him with a slight rustle of his black robes. The man caught his gaze, and a small smile pulled at one corner of his lips. Alex slightly relaxed into his armchair. He couldn't tell why, but this smile somehow always managed to make him feel better, no matter the occasion.

"I'm truly sorry to disturb you at this hour in the evening, Doctor," his mum was saying to Hakim. "But my husband and my brother have disappeared, and I have it in my mind that this might be linked with the stealing of the Diamond of Ahm Shere."

Alex's eyes were back on Hakim as he leaned back in his armchair and nodded. "Ah … yes. We are already aware of Messrs O'Connell' and Carnahan's disappearance."

Evelyn's eyes widened. "What do you mean, 'aware'? What happened? Where are they?"

"Calm yourself, Evelyn," said Ardeth, and he didn't so much as flinch as Alex's mum turned one of her most fierce gazes on him. Alex's respect for the Medjai leader increased. Even Dad would sometimes be wary of that Look. "Almost everything we know has been gathered this afternoon by word of mouth. The Medjai are not quite as cut off from the outside world as they seem, you know."

"When exactly were you planning to tell me?" Evelyn's voice was edging dangerously close to anger. Alex had more mixed feelings. For the moment, the most important one was curiosity. He was dying to hear what the two men had to say.

"Just before you knocked on the door, we were discussing the hour in the morning when we could go to your house without waking you up and tell you everything."

"You could even turn up at midnight, or five, I wouldn't have minded," said Evelyn, not much calmer. "Now what do you know, exactly?"

They told her and Alex pretty much the same story Senet had, up until the point where Rick, Jonathan and Mr Ferguson had driven off. Alex smirked at that. Despite everything his mum would say about a respectable citizen being law-abiding and honest, his uncle's little skills had come in handy more often than she liked to admit. And when it came down to it, she often forgot that whenever she entered a tomb, it was because she had broken into it in the first place.

"But, if they did escape, how come they haven't returned yet? What did happen afterwards?" The question his mother had just asked had been running in Alex's mind for a while, and he had a hunch that it had been the same for his mum.

Hakim frowned a little at that, looking grim. "Well, according to eyewitnesses, they drove all the way to Dr Grossgrabestein's excavation camp near Giza, and the car stopped in the middle of the tents."

"Why would they stop?" Mum's voice was suddenly much lower.

"The men pursuing them – we do not know who they were, but it appears that they looked quite the professionals – were shooting at them. One must have hit a target."

Alex's insides turned abruptly into ice, and his mum's face went pale. "Oh, my God … You mean …?"

"Nobody was hurt, it seems," added Ardeth quickly. "But when I went there to investigate a few hours ago, I found that the car had fallen from a height of six or seven feet, and one of the tyres had been perforated by a bullet. This should be what made them stop."

Evelyn was silent for a minute, long enough for Alex to chip in. "And …," he asked, rather hesitant and uncertain all of a sudden as Hakim's keen black eyes fell on him. "What happened? After they stopped, I mean?"

He was almost afraid to hear the answer. And when Ardeth looked at him with something in his face that was hard to name, he got not a little bit scared.

"Well," said Ardeth, shifting his eyes from son to mother, "the man called Ferguson drew a gun and pointed it at Jonathan."

The silence that fell felt like lead to Alex. He was vaguely aware that he had his mouth open and was probably looking like an idiot, but he didn't give a damn right now. Beside him, Mum had also her mouth slightly open, her eyes showing sad surprise. She blinked, then shook her head slowly. "Oh, dear … Something like this had to happen. I saw something like this coming, but …"

"What a b–" Alex burst, startling his mother. He corrected himself just in time. "Stinking turncoat! We saw him the other day at the bazaar, and he acted all friendly-like, the damn git –"

It was a mark of how much his mum had been shocked that she only stopped him there with a sharp "Alex! Language!"

Alex cast her the most sheepish glance he could, still quite angry. The guy had been so nice and funny whenever he'd met him – and that had been all an act? Lousy traitor. Not for the first time, Alex wished he would grow faster. That way he'd be able to punch the wind out of that goddamn two-faced scumbag who had betrayed his uncle and kidnapped his dad.

"I hope Dad punches his head off," he muttered, and his mother threw a warning glance at him, but nothing else. When he slipped a glance to Ardeth, though, he thought he saw something like amusement flicker on the dark-skinned face.

"So Tom Ferguson was working with those men …" Evelyn had recovered from her surprise and was now back to musing out loud, as she often did when she thought about something. "They must have been well organised to set up such a stunt. Who were they? What did they look like?"

"They were described as a handful of Englishmen, dressed in black and wearing felt hats," answered Ardeth. "About six of them, looking as if they were quite trained for this sort of thing."

That reminded Alex of some bad guys in some gangster films he'd seen, the ones with the big guns, big scars and smooth, shiny cars. Of course, his mum was never too keen on him seeing those sort of movies – she insisted that it was surely too scary for him. He hadn't told her yet that some stuff that had happened to him in real life was much, much scarier than everything he had seen on a screen so far.

A silence followed Ardeth's words, then Evelyn shook her head, frowning. "This doesn't make any sense. Who would kidnap Rick and Jonathan? Why them?"

"You told us earlier that you thought this had some kind of link with the Diamond of Ahm Shere," Dr Hakim said, his eyes keener than ever. "This happens to be our opinion as well. What could motivate such an action, unless it be the need for information?"

"Hang on," interrupted Alex, who had a hard time keeping up with Hakim's elaborate phrasing. "That means that whoever's taken Dad and Uncle Jon wanted some information about the diamond, doesn't it? But if it's them who've got the diamond now, what's the use?"

"This is what we were wondering as well," said Ardeth with a slight smile of his own, and Alex felt a mix of pride and annoyance – this was not getting them very far.

And then, at this moment, Mum's eyes began to shine with the funny glint that meant things were about to get interesting. "Tell me, Ardeth … Just how far does the link between the Diamond and the Oasis of Ahm Shere go?"

Ardeth and Hakim shared an equally appreciative glance; then the Medjai leader looked at Evelyn, his warm black eyes smiling at her, "So you remember, after all. I might have known." His eyes took on a very slightly faraway look, as they did whenever he was telling a story of the ancient times. "The link between the two is powerful, for without the Diamond the Oasis cannot exist. And of course, without the Oasis, the Diamond is aimless, just an ordinary gem."

"Don't you need the Bracelet of Anubis to find the Oasis?" Alex piped in, feeling that, as long as the Bracelet (and the stuff around it, too) was in the topic he could have a word in. After all, he was the one who'd got almost killed by it last time. Besides, his mum didn't seem to mind very much.

"It's a little more complicated than that," explained Ardeth, apparently ignoring Dr Hakim's annoyed frown at Alex. "The Bracelet was indeed a guide, a precious one, and as such it was protected fiercely by each succeeding Pharaoh's best guards –" there he glanced quickly at Evelyn, and Alex remembered what his mum had told him about her past life as Nefertiri, Pharaoh Seti's daughter – _How cool was that, by the way?_ "– but the Diamond and the Oasis are very intricately linked. For millennia people have believed that the Oasis hid a pyramid made of gold, and when the knowledge about the resting place of the Army of Anubis faded from memories, it was what lured many men into seeking the Oasis. However, you may remember that quite a number of men found their way there – and you saw what became of them."

During Ardeth's story, Alex had discreetly picked up a thick paper clip from Hakim's desk nearby, and fiddled with it as he listened. He always loved exciting stories. That – coupled with his parents' passion, of course – had been what drew him to Egyptian history.

"Some of these men must have gone far enough to see the Diamond gleaming at the top of the pyramid in the distance, but not dared to come closer – thus spreading the word that the whole pyramid was made of gold.

"As time passed, history became legend, and the Oasis disappeared from popular memory. However, there always were men foolish or greedy enough to attempt the pursuit of the Oasis of Ahm Shere. Legends involving gold are often those that last longest.

"But nobody ever unveiled the secret of Ahm Shere … until the last Year of the Scorpion, when the Bracelet of Anubis was uncovered by you, Evelyn, and your family. We all know what ensued."

Alex listened raptly, still toying with the paper clip. At Ardeth's last words, he straightened in his chair and blurted out, "When I was with Imhotep down in that oasis, he told Hafez something about the Bracelet being some sort of key to the Scorpion King … What did he mean by that?"

"Young man, did nobody teach you to listen to your elders and keep quiet whilst they speak?" said Hakim severely. Alex just stared back at him, undeterred. Of course the rules of politeness demanded silence from kids. But he had never been one to keep silent when he had a question to ask.

Besides, from the look on his mum's face, it seemed that she would say her word in the matter. "Dr Hakim," she said, her voice quite polite and cool – maybe too much so –, "you know how much I respect you and your work – but Alex is _my_ son, and I believe _I_ should be the one to decide whether to tell him off or not when he misbehaves. And I do not think that asking questions that are relevant to this conversation can be considered as misbehaving."

Wham. _Way to go, Mum_. Alex refrained from beaming at his mum – perhaps that would have been a little too much. But she did not often defend him that way; when she did, however, it was always very effective.

There was a rather awkward pause, as Hakim stared at Evelyn, his black eyebrows raised in surprise; and as a grinning Alex turned his eyes to Ardeth Bay, he saw that the Medjai, by his particular standards, seemed to be trying hard to force down a smile.

"So," Alex asked, as if nothing had happened, "what did Imhotep mean?"

"Exactly what he said – not only was the Bracelet a guide, showing the way to Ahm Shere by means of visions and clues to its bearer; it was also the key to revive the Scorpion King."

"Can the pyramid – and the oasis – exist after the death of the Scorpion King, then?" asked Evelyn, her eyes alive again with curiosity.

"The Scorpion King and his army have been kept five thousand years, yet the Oasis and the pyramid were never hidden from human eyes," said Ardeth. "Despite what happened after Rick O'Connell killed the Scorpion King, it is my opinion that the Pyramid is still there as we speak, buried under the sands, dead as a house abandoned by its only master for millennia."

A heavy silence followed these words. Evelyn had noticed Alex fingering the large paper clip and motioned discreetly at him to put it back where he had picked it up. However, as soon as she looked in another direction, Alex stealthily put it in his pocket, with the random thought that it could always come in handy sometime.

"It does not tell us," Evelyn said after a little while, her slender eyebrows in a frown, "what the men who have taken my husband and my brother have in mind."

"No, it does not," Hakim agreed in his low-pitched, gently accented voice. "Whatever their purpose may be, if they manage to find a way inside the Pyramid, they will find nothing but dead stones – just an empty shell."

Silence filled the room once more, while Alex's mind was filled with fresh questions. The one he turned and turned again in his head was what the hell those guys, whoever they may be, had taken Dad and Uncle Jon for. The one he wanted to dwell upon was what these same guys would do if Hakim's words proved true. No, he definitely didn't want to think about _that_.

While the two Medjai started to elaborate theories which would explain those weird men's hidden purpose – Evelyn kept silent, the frown still on her face – Alex looked past Hakim at the window in front of him. The curtains were open, and he could see a patch of ink-black sky, where he looked in vain for stars. Clouds must be darkening the sky and making it impossible to see anything.

Nobody noticed the small, rather grim smile Alex gave as the thought occurred to him that the sky was not the only thing to be completely blocked by clouds.

* * *

The ground was shaking. No, not only shaking, but rattling and rolling too – Rick was conscious of regularly bumping against something that felt like a wall, and that made his whole left side hurt from shoulder to hip. Now that was something new. He sure could recall times when he had been treated far worse and not been really bothered by bruises. _Mmh. Guess I'm getting a little old for this shit._

"Hey – you're awake?" came a tentative voice he quickly identified as Jonathan's.

"Think so," Rick muttered, rolling onto his right side and trying to get a bit steadier on the ground. Then he noticed the rising heat that he had blissfully been unaware of in his sleep. "What's the time?"

"Come on now, Rick," came Jonathan's voice again behind him, sounding kind of relieved, "that's hardly the proper question one would usually ask in circumstances like these."

_Yeah, sure_. Damn this elaborate phrasing first thing in the morning. But Rick had a hunch that wherever all this crazy stuff was heading to, it was not going to be quite 'usual'. Hell, he was almost glad to hear the slight touch of sarcasm tingeing the British-accented voice. How could things get more unusual after that?

"So what would be the _proper_ question, then?" he drawled, opening his eyes to scan the room.

"Why, I might be wrong, of course, but I do think that 'Where are we?' would be more accurate."

Rick sat up and looked quizzically at Jonathan. "Well, you are wrong. It's pretty obvious where we are. We're in a sorta truck, and it's driving off to God knows where. Oh, and it's a pretty bad road. But I'm sure you knew that already," he added with a smirk.

A particularly nasty jolt of the truck followed, as if to back his words. There was a pause, and Rick almost snorted at his brother-in-law's miffed expression, which looked rather like a pout. This was one of those rare times he could observe genuinely close similarities between Evy and Jonathan. Sister and brother were such polar opposites that it was almost easy to forget that the two were siblings at all.

"To answer your first question, old boy," Jonathan said after a while, a little stiffly, "it must be around eight or nine in the morning."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I've just woken up myself a few minutes ago. And I didn't want you to get cranky from lack of sleep – you did look like you needed it."

"I'm never cranky."

It was Jonathan's turn to smirk. Rick ignored him and ran a hand in his hair to scratch the back of his head. He had just thought of something.

"Hey, there was a woman on the other side of the wall, last night. Said she was Ferguson's wife."

Jonathan's slightly slanted eyes went suddenly as round as saucers. "What, Lizzie? You mean Elizabeth Ferguson was here!"

"Yep. So it's true you two knew each other, then?"

A slight smile somehow made its way on the Englishman's bemused face. "Y – yes … We used to hang around together at university. With Tom. So," he added a little too quickly, "what the hell was she doing down there?"

"Well, it seems that whatever Ferguson's been messing with, it's pretty serious. She said she'd been taken from her house someplace in England and brought here for guarantee. You know, blackmail. And looks like she's really scared for her husband, and that those guys have given her every reason to be."

"They didn't – hurt her or anything, did they?" said Jonathan, alarmed. Rick shook his head, inwardly amused.

"No, they didn't. She sounded fine to me."

Jonathan nodded, "Good." Then he rested his chin on his knees and fixed a point somewhere near Rick, frowning slightly. "That's good." Something flickered over his face, and the frown deepened. "So that was the 'choice' the other was talking about, then."

"What're you talking about?"

"Nothing."

After half a second of thinking, though, Rick knew what he meant. Ferguson did have a choice – it was betrayal or widowerhood. Tough one. With a very slight wince, Rick realised that if himself had been forced to deliver a former school – or orphanage, as it were – buddy to odd guys to save his wife, he sure as hell would have done it without even thinking.

On the other hand, what Ferguson had done had really been dirty, even with the best excuses. He had manipulated, fooled nearly everybody, gained their relative trust, only to two purposes: getting his hands on the Diamond of Ahm Shere and bringing the two of them to his bosses.

Nearly everybody. Rick felt a surge of pride about his wife – Evy's misgivings had been justified, and that Ferguson guy had not managed to twist her around his little finger like that – mingled with annoyance. He was none too pleased with himself for not having seen that there was something shifty about that guy too eager to please.

Then something peculiar crossed his mind. "_Lizzie_? Gee, you guys must've been pretty close if you got so familiar with a girl. And I thought you Brits were supposed to be gentlemen."

Jonathan's right eyebrow shot up, his face set in marble. "I'll have you know that there was never anything romantic between us, O'Connell, if that's what you were talking about. And Englishmen are not '_supposed_' to be gentlemen. They _are_."

Rick couldn't help but grin impishly. "I sort of was talking about that. So there was definitely something, then."

One single brown eyebrow crept up even higher as Jonathan cocked his head forward and said, his voice even, "Pray tell, what exactly makes you say that?"

Rick's sly grin widened. Despite the bumps and holes in the road, this was getting funnier and funnier. "Because usually, when you speak of somebody 'belonging to the fairer sex', as Evy would put it, you brag endlessly about rendezvous and everything, and you forget the girl in the following month. You still haven't forgotten her after several years, so – well, no need to be Sherlock Holmes to see that it's unusual with you."

"How very astute," deadpanned Jonathan, probably painfully aware that the tips of his ears were turning slightly pink.

It was hard enough for Rick to keep a straight face, but as he pictured Evy's face had she been there to see her brother so embarrassed about a woman, he had to look down and pretend to take a great interest in his shoes to hide his laughter.

When he finally felt secure enough, Rick looked up again, to find a pair of dead serious blue eyes narrowed at him. "I totally fail to see the funny side of this."

Whoa. One odd thing with Jonathan was that, the more pissed off he was, the more stuck-up his phrasing would get. Rick eventually cracked and let out a loud guffaw, while his brother-in-law rolled his eyes.

"Oh, bugger off," he muttered, the corners of his mouth finally pulled in a reluctant grin.

Rick was still in pretty high spirits when the truck slowed to a stop and the back doors were pulled open. Blinding white light rushed in, along with the dust and heat of the outside.

"Gentlemen, I will ask you to get down," came a slimy voice Rick knew only too well. Sure enough, when his sight adjusted to the change of light, Oddball Number One was standing in the open doors, his black suit outlined against the over-bright dazzle. As Jonathan got up behind him, looking uncertain, Rick stared at the newcomer, his eyes narrowed.

"You didn't say the magic word," he drawled.

Three gunmen seemed to appear out of thin air behind Number One, and aimed at the two of them. Number One smiled smugly, "If you please."

Rick shrugged and started to make his way down, followed by Jonathan who cast a swift glare in passing at Number One from his narrowed blue eyes. The latter looked back at him just as coldly.

To Rick's surprise, they seemed to be in a town – in Giza, more specifically, as he just had the time to realise before the underlings who were holding him at gunpoint made him enter a house very close to where the truck had been parked. He didn't know this part of the city very well, but he had been there a few times before and had a good memory.

They crossed a couple of rooms, which looked like any local house's would, then the guys in black made them walk a small flight of stairs down to a sort of basement or cave, which looked pretty much like the one they had left earlier.

"Again!" Rick stared at the four men in disbelief. "You guys never heard of a little something called originality?" Number One stared at him, his eyes narrowed behind his small glasses, and his mouth set.

"And whatever were you expecting, Mr O'Connell?" he asked, his voice just as soft as his eyes were cold. "A stone dungeon? Or a bullet in the back of your neck, perhaps?"

"Ah, I don't mean to interrupt or anything," said Jonathan behind Rick, his voice steadier than the American would have thought it to be in circumstances like those, "but if you bothered to keep us alive so far, I reckon it's not only for art's sake, now, is it?"

_Good point. Except that if they keep sending us what they call coffee, we'll drop dead before we know it_.

"Although you seem to have a peculiar conception of art, Mr Carnahan, your words do make some sense," Number One said, sounding remarkably like a hungry toad who had a fly in sight. "Now, if you would step in, please."

No matter how childish it surely was, Rick sorely wanted to stomp on the guy's feet as he walked in the room – but he refrained himself, thinking instead of the moment when he would get his hands on a gun and have a little fun with him. Or even just punch his teeth in. Oh yeah. No matter how long it would take, this guy would get what was coming to him.

This shiny, warming thought anchored in mind, Rick turned back toward Jonathan and Number One, who was about to close the door with a falsely polite bow of his head.

"Gentlemen, till our next meeting."

Rick's teeth made a grinding sound. Sarcasm and kidnapping aside, there was something animal-like in him that hated the guy. A deep gut feeling. Like a physical thing.

And then something rather unexpected happened. Although, all things considered, Rick could have expected something like this.

Jonathan walked a step or two toward Number One.

"I say, ah, What's-your-name?" he piped up. Rick could see the quiet sort of smirk that was usual on his brother-in-law's face, though it looked a little bit subdued right now. "Think you've _dropped_ this."

And he threw a worn leather wallet at Number One, whose expression turned rather dirty as he caught it in mid-air.

Rick grinned widely.

The situation hadn't changed one iota, the two of them were still as weaponless as they had been twelve hours ago, and he still didn't fully know why they had been brought there in the first place …

But fact was, this was a nifty little bit of fun.

* * *

Well, Jon does have some skill as a pickpocket, doesn't he? And here I'd like to disagree with a tiny point in Brendan Fraser's commentary on TM: he doesn't pick the key from Imhotep's loincloth, but from his _robes_, for God's sake! It's only when Imhotep drops him on the ground that our favourite mummy shakes off his robes, revealing skunky Ancient Egyptian-style boxer-shorts – I'm sure there's got to be a thong somewhere under that. Honestly, actors and their dirty minds :D 

Hope you liked :o) (and yes, that also means you lurkers who don't leave reviews. I don't mind, but I'd like to know what you thought about the story/chapters :o) I hope the explanations in Hakim's living room did not confuse you too much – I did my best to put things in the simplest way I could, but I don't quite know whether it worked!

Well, shout-outs :o)

**_LuckyFannah:_** Methinks that FF dot net has been having some troubles with Copy/Paste HTML in reviews, because half of yours has vanished in thin air – luckily, I have the complete original in my mailbox. Same thing's happened to me, and it's not pleasant. Thanks anyway for your review! This whole chapter was rather difficult to write, but so much fun. I was afraid it'd be a let-down after the action in the previous one, but I could almost hear – and see, that's where I got the image of Rick's shoes :P – the scene in my head while writing, so I supposed it wouldn't be so bad. Anyway, I'm glad you liked it :o)

**_Lilylynn:_** Well, if Evelyn saved Rick and Jon right now, it'd be comforting, but there wouldn't be much of a story, would there :o) Thanks for your review, and I hope you liked this one as well. I like very much writing little mother and son moments, but in this chapter and the couple afterwards I really enjoyed myself writing the Rick and Jon interaction :) They're just so different, it's a delight!

**_EggSalad:_** Hooray for average – behind you all the way, baby :D Don't worry about Tommy, I promise you a nice, long scene in the next chapter – and he actually gets the PoV this time! Well, till then, I can't tell you much about his involvement as far as the plot's concerned, but he's in deep all right.

Speaking of plot, it's in fact what spurred me to start to actually write this story – because the main lines of the plot seemed kind of right. I've got a couple of plot bunnies (though I think that, in this particular case, I could say 'plot mummies' :P ) trotting around in my mind, but while a couple of characters I just begin to flesh out, the Big Bad Plot's still evading me. So I guess it'll be a while till I post something long :o) Oh, interaction… I'm a big fan of interactions like that. It's very personal, the way different people perceive such or such interaction, and it's what makes reading others' writings so interesting. Especially since we're all big fans of the films; a lot of us have them and watch them every now and then, if only to refresh their memory, and I don't know about you but I always find something new in them when I do. One example: in the films, there's not many scenes where Ardeth and Jon actually exchange words. But except when it's really serious or when things move a little bit too fast for it, does it seem that Ardeth just likes taking the mickey out of Jon or is it just me :o) Watch again, and tell me :o) But Rick and Jon, yeah. They balance each other delightfully, and every bump and hole in the road makes their interaction more interesting. I had the two of them in mind when I first sketched out the main line, because they're a very dynamic duo (as proved by any single line of your wonderful stories :o) and I don't think there are that many 'big', action/adventure stories out there that team up the two of them more or less against their will. In a nutshell, FTaH is a buddy movie/story :o)

**_Eris:_** I'm afraid we're not going to see Senet again, unless I include her for a little cameo towards the end, and we're certainly not there yet :o) I think there **is** more to her than just a skinny little native girl, but I'll leave you with just that so you can imagine by yourself! No, I'm not mean ;o) It's just that while Senet was a story-telling choice – I needed someone who could warn Evy, and she just seemed to pop up on her own – she's also there because there is so much more to Egypt than just a desert country built along the Nile. She's the reason I always preferred history to geography in school, the imagination, the mystery that surrounds some places which you may never decipher. What's funny is that I just liked the sound of Senet – I was looking for an Egyptian girl's name on a site – but I found out a few months ago that the 'senet' was a game played by fairly noble families in Egypt, with which you could tell your 'future' by throwing dice on a board with images on it. Nice, eh :o)

**_STC: _**Hey :o) I hope this time it wasn't too long. But all through last week I had no access to Internet at all, because I was sick with a sore throat and was too tired to go out, get on the tram for an hour, and wait a half-hour in front of the Internet room. But I'll make it up by updating reeeaally fast next time, if I can. How's that :o)

**_Adele:_** I continue writing, in fact I have almost finished the 12th chapter. Thanks :o) What does 'mint' mean, though? I looked it up in the FF dot net dictionary and couldn't find it.

See y'all next time :o)


	9. Dark Messages

**Author's notes:** Hello there:o) I hope you've had a wonderful Christmas and a happy New Year's Eve despite the tragedy in Asia. We've observed the three-minute silence at twelve, though I know that it won't do much good for the poor souls who lost their lives there and everyone who lost one or several relatives and friends. So I'll send a warm and heartfelt hug to anyone who needs it.

The title of this chapter is a little lame, but it'll be clearer by the end – I got it from the _The__ Virgin Suicides_ soundtrack by Air.

_Disclaimer: I am now the proud owner of the famous 12-DVDs set of the_ Lord of the Rings _trilogy, and Christmas has come and gone, which means I'm fairly short of money by now. However, I'll state that I do not own the characters featured in_ The Mummy _and its_ _sequel; they belong_ _to Steve Summers and Universal Pictures. Not me. Right? If I did, I'd have much more money. Still, I created the Fergusons, Fahad Hakim, Charles Hamilton and a few secondary characters we've not met yet._

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 9: Dark Messages_**

To say that dawn was Evelyn's favourite moment of the day would not have been quite right. Certainly, back home in London, sunrise or the minutes preceding it were not unlike the calm before the storm, a welcome lull during which she would get some time to cast off the last remnants of sleep. It was also the first moment of the day that she spent together with her husband and son, and she had come to love the little routine that had gradually settled between them.

On week days, Evelyn usually got up first, and then was the first to go downstairs to the kitchen and pick up the bottles of milk outside the smallish kitchen door. Then Rick would join her and help her with the toast while she sipped her tea and fixed his coffee and Alex's, who, despite some grumpy mornings, was generally never very long to turn up for any meal. After breakfast, Rick would drop Alex at his school on his way to work, while on fair-weather days she'd take out her bicycle to ride to the British Museum.

But here … Egypt made everything different. The 'Land of Living Sand', as she remembered her mother's usual expression, was a land of contrasts. The night was as cold as the day was hot, and when the sun rose, the sight of sunlight creeping down the white-washed house fronts was just as heartening as was the gradual sensation of heat slowly warming up the air around you and the ground beneath your feet. Everything changed – from the temperature to the colours – and all things seemed to come back to life in one fluid movement … Each morning a resurrection took place.

Such thoughts Evelyn welcomed as she walked along the streets of Cairo on this early Sunday morning. Even if it didn't drive away all her worries, it did wonders to abate her concern somewhat. And she had missed the Egyptian sunrise. The little flat-roofed houses slowly regained their whitish colour, tinged with a yellow shade that gradually lightened as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Though the sight and the sensation of growing warmth did not raise her spirits the way it would have done in other circumstances, she felt that it would probably have been worse had they been in London. After an entire night spent in building up theories and elaborate plans with Dr Hakim and Ardeth Bay, the three of them where still without a clue. It was not without difficulty that Evelyn had finally listened to Ardeth and headed home to get some rest.

As for her Alex, he had been sleeping for a while now already, and he was still fast asleep now as Ardeth carried him home. Her boy had bravely held on until he finally dropped on Hakim's couch at about five in the morning, exhausted. When the crack of dawn had come, it had been time to leave and go to bed – although Evelyn doubted that she would fall asleep quickly, considering the impressive amount of mint tea she had downed throughout the night to keep herself awake, and Hakim made it quite strong. She had hesitated over waking Alex or not, till Ardeth had kindly made the suggestion of simply carrying him home. Evelyn had it in her mind that it was the wish to see the two O'Connells home safe and sound, and resting if possible, more than friendship, that had prompted the suggestion.

Despite the rising cheer of the Egyptian dawn, and Ardeth's quietly reassuring countenance, she felt tired, along with hungry, and not a little bit discouraged. Something of it must have been showing on her face, because as they turned round a corner not very far from her house on El Muski street, Ardeth looked at her with a funny expression in his black eyes, "Don't be so disheartened, Evelyn. Even if we haven't managed to get all the pieces together last night, we _will_ find them."

Evelyn let out a little laugh, low enough not to wake Alex. ­"You really are unpredictable, Ardeth. You weren't nearly as optimistic last time we went to search for a missing member of the family."

Ardeth's sudden grin lit up his dark face, "It is only a habit we Medjai seem to have – expect the worst, and doubly enjoy the best when it comes at last."

Evelyn couldn't help a grin, too. "I must admit that it sounds like a good philosophy. But tell me, then – what makes you so certain this time that we will find Rick and Jonathan?"

"I don't know, to be honest – I almost never rely on certainties. But I have faith in our stubbornness, as well as in the both of them. I now believe Rick to be able to more or less get out of any difficult situation, and for all that one can reproach him with, your brother can prove remarkably resourceful as well."

So understatements were not the prerogative of British people solely after all. Picturing what Jonathan's expression would be like if someone told him Ardeth had called him 'resourceful', Evelyn smiled as she picked up her keys from her pocket and opened the door.

The dark and silent house felt empty when she entered it with Ardeth slipping in behind her, quick and quiet as a shadow. Everything was just as she had left it when she had gone earlier in the evening to the British Consulate, after her lengthy conversation with Senet. Rick's trilby was left untouched on the chest of drawers in the living room, and she had even forgotten to bring the tea tray back to the kitchen. The abandoned cups, milk jug, teapot and cold kettle made for an oddly lonely picture in the feeble light of the small lamp she had just turned on – the shutters had been closed all day to keep the heat away, and she didn't feel like opening them now. Something twisted in Evelyn's insides, an emptiness that she quickly dismissed, putting it on account of her growing tiredness. She gave a sigh as she turned away from the table, gently rubbing the bridge of her nose.

_Wait a minute. Something doesn't look right here_. Evelyn turned back to the table, blinking furiously to erase all traces of sleep, and only then did she take notice of the square envelope lying right there on the table, plain as day.

"Ardeth!" she whispered as loud as she dared to the Medjai who had one foot on the first step to the first floor. Alex stirred a little in his arms. "Have you seen that?" Curiosity was quickly overtaking any remnant of sleepiness, and she swiftly grasped the letter. Curiosity mingled with anticipation, because she could more or less guess what the contents were about.

Ardeth nodded seriously. The light didn't quite reach him where he was standing, and she could only see his chin, his high cheekbones, and the tip of his aquiline nose. Everything else was hidden in shadow.

"I have, but if I may, I'll put Alexander to bed first. I'll be downstairs in a minute."

To be honest, Evelyn felt a little ashamed that she had not had this reaction herself. But as she gazed down at the letter and waited for her friend to come down, a gradual, sinking feeling of foreboding began to creep into her stomach. This particular letter would be no good at all.

Ardeth was soon downstairs and standing beside Evelyn as she ripped the paper open. The letter was succinct, if anything.

_Mrs O'Connell,_

_As you may have guessed by now, your husband Rick O'Connell and your brother Jonathan Carnahan are, as we write, enjoying our company in a place that I am sure you will understand we will keep secret. They will be brought back to you in due time, when what is expected of them is completed, and this only if you do not have the rather foolish impulse to go to the police or do anything rash._

_I am positive we understand each other, Mrs O'Connell. We are a powerful organisation, and will not be troubled by impulsive actions, especially on your part._

_Yours respectfully._

Evelyn would have wanted to say something, anything, but her throat felt too tight to talk. Instead, she let go of the letter, which, now that she had read it, seemed to burn her fingers. She was aware of Ardeth looking at her, but she avoided his gaze, conscious that she was now blinking more than was usually necessary. Her vision was slightly blurred at the edges, but now she wasn't sure whether it had everything to do with tiredness.

"Well, at least the cat is out of the bag now," she said shakily when she could find her voice again. It sounded like a pale imitation of her usual rich tones.

Ardeth's face looked grave. Finally daring to look at him – her features composed enough – Evelyn watched the reflection of the bleak light flicker a little while in his dark eyes before he answered, "Whatever cat you are speaking about, this certainly is an important discovery."

Evelyn's tight lips relaxed for a second in an ever so slight smile. Ardeth always said that for all his good will, he would never quite master, let alone get used to all the odd Western sayings.

"Do not worry about it more than you already do, Evelyn," he carried on gently, seemingly not noticing her slight change of expression. "Those who have written this letter meant only to frighten you into inactivity. However, we must be careful. Do you mind if I take this letter to Fahad Hakim? I promise that it will be back before you know it."

"Are you going back to Dr Hakim's right now, then?" Evelyn asked, startled. "What about rest?"

"If this is what bothers you, don't worry, I will get some soon," Ardeth answered, this time unveiling his white eye-teeth in a grin. "But I advise you to rest now. Today will be a long day, and it would be best to get prepared for anything that might happen."

Evelyn nodded, the sleepy sensation gradually coming back, so strong that it almost drove even her concern away. She folded the letter and handed it to Ardeth, who took it and carefully put it in a pocket of his robes.

"I'll be on my way, then," he said as Evelyn showed him to the door. "Have a good rest, and use it well."

"I promise I will," she said with a tired smile, still blinking. "There's simply no question of you waltzing off to some haphazard adventure in search of my husband and my brother without me."

"I would have been greatly surprised otherwise," said Ardeth with this smile of his own that made his eyes flash.

* * *

Thomas Ferguson had not closed an eye last night. 

It wasn't the first time that he stayed up all night, though, far from it. This sort of thing tends to occur fairly often in this line of work. He had got used to the headaches, the stiffness, and the coated tongue that he would usually get after a whole night spent doing paperwork and drinking Earl Greys, occasionally accompanied with shots of brandy. One or two by night, no more, was his general rule.

However, on this particular night, Tom had not filled any papers. He had simply, dumbly lain awake on his cot all night, pondering the situation.

_Bloody fuckin' mess_.

He had arrived at this conclusion rather early, despite the fact that he had truly grasped all the mechanics of the Chamber's plan when Bane and his underlings had popped out of that Lincoln and asked Jon, O'Connell and him to get in. At that moment, he had known that what he had dreaded and what nobody had told him was turning out to be true: the Chamber needed more than the diamond to achieve their goal – they needed the people who had owned it as well. And true to their habits, they had picked the first 'suspects' they had come across.

Tom shook his head sadly, putting his pen back on the table and massaging the bridge of his nose. Why did it have to be Jon? And why did it have to be _him_ on this case? He had been genuinely glad to see his old mate again, to share memories of the good ol'days, and speak of their respective lives. And when they had phoned him in the early hours of the following morning to tell him what his assignment was going to be, he had protested – but his requests for another assignment had been rejected and he'd got stuck in this bloody shambles.

Never, in eight years of work, had he been so reluctant to complete an assignment. Jon wasn't like most of the guys he had known at university, from friendly grown foreign, a stranger with no more common traits with his old friend. No matter how much each of them had changed, Tom had really felt, for a couple of hours, as if they were back at the Oxford Bar Oz, sharing some good laughs and a few silences.

And they sure had a lot to be silent, not to say grim about at the time. They both had managed somehow – like some other lads – to sneak their way out of the great butchery going on in France; but a lot of older fellow students had never been seen again after their glorious and proud departures. Dave Hogg, John Eastrow, Terrence Campbell … Tom had eventually lost count. Edwin Farbow, due to his high rank in society, had been made an officer right away, at the beginning of the war; he had died an officer. Arthur McAlester had returned with his left foot missing, cut just above the ankle. Elizabeth had been so relieved to see him coming back home alive that she had cried the few tears she had left after four years of fear.

Tom tried to blink away the sting in his eyes, the result of another sleepless night. He longed for Lisa's cool hand on his brow easing the worries away like she would do, or enveloping him in a tender hug. He longed to bury his face in her thick curly hair, breathe in the familiar scent of clove and vanilla, so sweet, so reassuring. Her very presence, however quiet and discreet at times, was indispensable to him, be it hearing her humming softly in another room, the sound of her feet on the floor, a glimpse of her as she passed, the rich colours of her dark red hair, a smile in her hazel eyes, the taste of her lips … Not that they had never been apart once since they were married – far from it. But both of them knew they had the other to come home to. Now that she had been taken away from him by force – not to mention the fact that he had strict orders not to see her – he truly realised how much he missed her. It was constantly there, like a knot in his throat that reminded him why he was doing what he was doing.

Throughout his career, he had had to do some dirty work now and then – but it never interfered with his personal life. Beside, for him being a secret agent consisted of a lot of dull paperwork and very little actual field action, which he had eventually been glad of after reading a few fellow agents' reports. Oh sure, when the Chamber had contacted him at the very beginning he had been beside himself with joy. At least, a serious – if a little shady – organisation directly linked to the British Government was interested enough in his work on ancient civilisations to hire him! Officially he was a consultant of the British Antique Research Department – informally, he was an office agent for the Chamber of Horus, a secret governmental organisation specialised in keeping a watch over precious or supposed dangerous artefacts and acquiring them. The name originally came from the legendary secret treasure chamber said to be hidden in the depths of the Great Pyramid of Keops. Tom still didn't really know for sure whether they had discovered it. His specialised field was the Valley of the Kings, not the north of Egypt, and his bosses didn't let out much.

He knew the whole story about Imhotep, High Priest of Osiris, and about the consequences of his affair with Pharaoh Seti 1st's concubine Anck-su-namun – not only the _hom-dai_ that had followed directly afterwards, but also the mainlines of what had happened both eleven and two years ago. It had been hard to lie to Jon. One of the reasons Tom was so seldom assigned to field work was his inability to lie and a certain tendency to blunder. Hiding things was not a big problem – as far as Elizabeth was concerned, he had been working for eight years for the Research Department. But he still had some difficulty with telling correctly a downright lie; he lacked the self-assurance and poise for it.

Unlike Jon. Jon was by far one of the best liars he'd ever seen. A reality that had got the two of them out of many a tricky situation.

The pen he'd put down earlier almost hit the wall. Tom was furious with himself – no matter how hard he tried to think seriously about his report, his thoughts always came back to either Lisa or Jon.

Tom let out a frustrated sigh. For one who liked life simple and comfortable, his current situation was nothing like that, between the concern gnawing at his guts and the feeling that a big part of this sorry mess, if not everything, was his fault.

Well, not quite everything, to be honest. But a big part of it.

He had to explain himself, at least to Jon – because there was no way in hell they'd let him see Lisa, let alone talk to her, until the whole thing was over. Jon was easier to reach. Tom could always find one pretext or other that the henchmen would buy.

Not to mention that right now was just the right time. Whatever guarding there was to do was reduced to two rookies on Sundays, who would not dare question the word of an established, older agent. The perfect situation to have a word alone with Jon and O'Connell.

Tom holstered his duty gun as he stood up and headed for the door of his office, a much smaller one than his cover office in the British Consulate in Cairo. One half of his files and books was there, and the other was here in his Giza office – he had hardly enough room for his desk, his chair and his coat-rack, which was fine for him. It wasn't as if he spent such a lot of time in there anyway.

Only a couple of hours after lunchtime and it was already quite hot – Tom was sweating under the light jacket he was more or less obliged to put on to hide the holster when walking in the street. So he was in a bit of a bad mood when he finally arrived at the house the Chamber had requisitioned because of its good location and thick basement door, and took the opportunity to appear more self-confident than he felt.

"Ferguson," he said after the regulation knock on the door and flashing his badge at the young agent. "I'm here to interrogate the prisoners."

The lad – Michaels, Tom believed his name was – opened the door, gave an embarrassed smile as Tom's eyes fell on the lemonade glasses and honey cakes on the table, called his colleague to check his identity again, showed him down the worn dusty stairs, and Tom found himself alone in front of the door with the keys before he could even think up a better excuse. It had not been three minutes since he had knocked at the door. Amazing. Or else the newbies were amazingly incompetent, he couldn't say.

Now that the two agents had gone back up to the ground floor to their lemonades, there was no sound other than the muffled voices, engaged in lively conversation, of the two 'prisoners' on the other side of the door, and Tom hesitated for a few seconds, the memory of Jon's fist still quite vivid in his jaw. But he kept reminding himself that sorting things out with his mate was worth the risk.

With an intake of breath as if before a plunge, Tom took out the keys and opened the door.

The conversation ceased immediately, and he found himself under the fire of two pairs of bright blue eyes, one round and furious, the other slightly slanted and cold. It unnerved him for a second.

"Oh," Jon said in an absolutely flat tone, as if Tom was something nasty stuck on the sole of his shoe, "it's you."

Tom paid no attention to the sudden pang in his heart and closed the door behind him. "Hi, Jon," he attempted rather lamely. "O'Connell," he added after a second, with a slight nod to the American.

Neither of the two moved.

"What are you here for exactly?" asked Jon in a cold voice he had never used to talk to Tom before.

"Yeah," came O'Connell's quiet menacing growl. "Ain't you afraid you're gonna get your face bashed in?" After a second's glance at Jon two steps behind him, he added, "… Again?"

Something flickered over Jon's face, like the ghost of a grin. This maybe did more harm to Tom than his former friend's tone of voice. Tom shook his head, "Look, I kinda have an idea of what you're thinking right now. But if you feel like takin' it out on me, at least wait till you know why you're here."

"Even if we are interested in our kidnapping, what makes you think we're gonna leave you be while you could be our ticket out, buddy?" O'Connell said, a dangerous expression on his face. Tom wasn't much impressed with the originality, even if his heart was starting to beat faster. He'd seen before prisoners escape with the unwilling help of a hostage, and he simply wasn't going to make that blunder. He didn't step back, but took out his gun in a swift move.

"Well, this, for one," he said simply.

O'Connell didn't say nor do anything, but his bright burning gaze remained fixed on Tom's face. As for Jon, he just stood there silently, but there was something in his eyes that made Tom avoid looking him in the face.

"Look," he finally repeated, "I came here by myself – no one knows I'm here but the two agents up the stairs. I'm not acting under orders now, right?"

"And after all the bull you've been feeding us, we're actually supposed to believe you?" Jon piped up, his narrowed eyes, now totally devoid of warmth, contrasting with his offhand attitude, hands casually buried in his pockets.

"Yeah, that's what you're s'pposed to do," snapped Tom. "For cripes' sake, man, I'm 'ere to help!"

"Then why don't ya let us out, eh?" deadpanned O'Connell, his eyes still fixed on him. Tom stared back.

" 'Cause I just can't do that. They'd kill me wife if I did."

"We figured that out, thanks," said Jon, an unreadable expression on his face. Tom turned to him, surprised.

"How's that?"

"Because I spent half the night talking to her yesterday," O'Connell said. "She was in the cell-thing right next to ours."

Tom's heart missed a beat.

"You talked to her? How is she? Is she all right?"

"Seems she is," said Jon, with in his voice something that sounded like a jeer mixed with reproach that didn't suit him at all, "and not thanks to you."

Tom couldn't help a withering glare. "D'you really think this is a time for witty remarks?"

Jon's eyes went round. "Could you think of a better time?"

"Actually, yeah, I could!"

"Right, stop it, you two," O'Connell cut in, looking a bit exasperated. "Jeez, you sound like a couple of kids. You, get to the point. You, let him talk."

Jon shot the American a rather dirty look, but didn't add anything. Tom holstered his gun and took the opportunity to speak, somewhat grateful for O'Connell's intervention.

"Right. Well, as you may have guessed, I don't really work for the British Antique Research Department –" here a snort interrupted him, and he glowered at Jon "– but for a governmental institution called the Chamber of Horus, and we're supposed to look after dangerous ancient artefacts. That's why the diamond of Ahm Shere was removed from the museum – right, Jon, if you snicker one more time I'll just leave here and not come back."

"_Please_," Jon said sarcastically before O'Connell could say anything, "do carry on. I'd _hate_ to interrupt you."

Torn between remorse and sheer exasperation, Tom cast another quick glare at his former friend, and continued, "So the diamond was taken. Me assignment was initially to try and keep the curator busy while a team took the diamond … But right before the start of the mission, the day before in fact, I bumped into you totally by chance – yes, _that_ much is true – and my bosses changed their plans.

"They decided to use you as a connection to the Museum through the curator, in order to get me inside the museum in the first place. But you were so eager to show me that diamond that everything went much quicker than expected."

Tom preferred to stop there, because facing the combined looks of a pained and furious Jon and an equally furious O'Connell was a bit much. He carried on, however, despite the lump in his throat that he fought hard to repress.

"Jon, you have to believe me when I say that I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to do anything as far as you and your family were concerned, and I certainly didn't want you involved in this mess! But you must understand that orders are something you can't just ignore –" Christ, how stupid he sounded! "– I – I don't know what they would have done, but it wouldn't've been very nice. These folks don't joke, mate."

"Oh yeah? I sort of felt that when they coshed me on the head the last two times," sneaked Jon with so much venom that even O'Connell glanced at him with a slightly surprised expression. Tom tried to steel himself.

"Look, the evening before the stealing of the diamond, I was told that I was to help the team in it, meaning let you be stunned and then be knocked out too meself. I said no, that there was no way in hell I'd let anybody hurt you to serve their interests. That's when they told me that I didn't really have a choice."

He took in a long breath, and to his relief, neither Jon nor O'Connell said anything in the meantime.

"They showed me a picture of me wife Elizabeth in a room I didn't recognise, with in her hands a week-old copy of the _Voice of Cairo_ – and told me that they had guessed I'd say that, and that if I didn't obey orders, I'd receive bits and pieces of her – a finger – a toe – every week." For a second time he tried to swallow the lump in his throat, without much success. "I didn't know they could actually do something like that, but I wasn't that surprised somehow."

Again, Tom stopped and nobody said anything. This time it was Jon's turn to avoid his gaze, but O'Connell still stared at him with something like interest in his bright blue eyes.

"What would _you_ have done if it were you?" asked Tom, suddenly turning to the American, almost angry. "If you'd seen a picture of your wife like that, and heard them saying they'd torture her if you didn't obey? Wouldn't you have done everything you could for all this bloody mess to end quick?"

"Cool down, I get your point," O'Connell said slowly. "I'd never do anything that put Evy in danger. But if some bunch of weirdoes had kidnapped her, I sure as hell would have done everything to find her and get her outta here."

Tom shook his head, "You don't understand. I can't just leave this job. They'd find us anywhere and kill us."

"You're really some paranoid bugger," muttered Jon, his voice a little bit shaky though. "Are you really _that_ important?"

"Not really, Jon, but I know a lot of stuff that could be dangerous for them. I'm just a pawn in the game, but they can't afford to lose any."

"What game are you talking about?" O'Connell asked lowly, his eyes narrowing. "What twisted kind of game is that?"

That's the moment the door chose to open with a grim creak.

"One with extremely important resonance, Mr O'Connell," said a low, chilling voice from the threshold.

Charles K. Hamilton stood there, flanked by none other than Bane and a fellow named Stephens, and wearing what came closest to a smile on his face.

* * *

"Who the hell are you?" 

Rick had never seen this guy before. And he had never seen anything like this guy before. This guy – he recognised Oddball Number One as one of the cronies, and the other, unknown, didn't count – was … he was _clean_. Despite the fact that he came from the hot and dusty outside, his suit was perfect and there was not a single grey hair sticking out of his also perfect hairdo. He looked so clean it was disturbing.

But when you looked further than the suit … The guy was creepy. Dead creepy. Apart from his black suit, everything about him was grey – his hair, the hue of his skin, and – as he took off his sunglasses – his eyes. They were the coldest, creepiest thing Rick had looked upon in a couple of years.

Rick's eyes fell on the two Englishmen. Ferguson had blanched, and Jonathan wore a weird expression on his face.

Then it dawned on him. "_I've just met Nosferatu_", "_His boss wanted to see me about what happened at the Museum two days ago. Seems that the Research Department was keeping an eye on the diamond_" …

"You're his boss, aren't you?" he said to the newcomer, pointing at Ferguson without looking at him. "The one Jonathan went to see yesterday, right?"

Unlike the rest of his person, the creep's teeth showed white when he unveiled his eye-teeth in some grim attempt at a smile. Rick almost expected them to be grey as well.

"You know, Mr O'Connell, from what I had gathered so far, you didn't seem the smart sort to me –" and here he glanced sideways to Number One, who offered the American his slimiest, most toad-like smile "– but it seems that it did not do you justice."

"What do you want with that diamond?" Rick asked abruptly. He always hated people beating around the bush, and to him it looked as though they'd been doing just that ever since that damn traitor had come in first. "And you –" he cast a brief look at Ferguson, who looked horror-struck "– thought you weren't 'acting under orders'?"

"I wasn'," answered Ferguson, sounding genuinely desperate. It was then that Rick noticed that Jonathan's glare had not moved from the Liverpudlian since his boss arrived. "I swear t'God, I wasn't!"

"First things first, Ferguson," came Grey Guy's calm, low-pitched voice. "So, since you do not already know me, Mr O'Connell, my name is Charles Hamilton, and I am indeed a 'boss', Ferguson's and many others' – we happen to work within a governmental organisation called the Chamber of Horus. That should be enough for you to know.

"Still, this one here is speaking the truth: I certainly did not give any order for him to interrogate you, although I did suspect that he would try and reach you. That is why I gave particular orders to the two agents up there for them to contact me whenever he came, if he did.

"As for the Diamond of Ahm Shere … I take it that Ferguson did not have the time to fill you in about that particular subject, did he?"

"Yep, he stopped before the interesting part," Rick said with the shadow of a grin, keeping his voice even. Ferguson turned a pair of hurt and surprised brown eyes to him. To tell the truth, Rick had not been that unsympathetic to the Englishman's story, but there were some things that needed to be done quick. And he didn't really feel like apologising to Ferguson.

"Did he now?" There was something mocking written all over Hamilton's severe face, down to the eye-teeth. "Well, it is true that there is a lot our mutual 'friend' doesn't know about." He turned away from Rick to Jonathan. "Mr Carnahan, I apologise for not greeting you so far. How do you fare in this simple but homely abode?"

"Not too bad, the service is just perfect," Jonathan eventually said, shifting his gaze from Ferguson to his boss. "Except for your coffee, which is just about the most foul-tasting, disgusting bloody thing I've ever had the misfortune of tasting in my life."

Rick couldn't help a grin. His brother-in-law was getting kind of good at dealing with situations like this one.

Hamilton pursed his lips, and his gaze went even colder, if such a thing was possible, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he turned to Number One and the other guy.

"Bane, Stephens? You can leave us now, gentlemen. Wait for me behind the door, and do not let anyone come out or in unless _I_ give you the order to. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, sir," answered Number One, or Bane for that matter. To be honest, Rick was rather relieved to have a name for this guy – he had gotten a little bored of the Oddball Gang game by now.

Once they were outside and the door was shut, Hamilton slowly turned to the three of them again, and, looking at each of them in turn, said, "Now, has any of you heard about something called the Night of the Long Knives?"

In Hamilton's dead-looking grey eyes had just grown such an intensity that Rick almost unconsciously racked his brain for an answer to the echo the term had made. And he found it.

"Something that happened in Germany a couple of years ago, right? The papers talked about it." The memory was hazy, but it definitely rang a bell about some nasty kind of stuff. He even remembered a few caricatures published at the time.

"I think I sort of see what you mean as well," Jonathan said behind him in a low voice. "Wasn't it something about purges in the German army or whatnot?"

"Pleasure to see you read the press so carefully," said Hamilton sarcastically. "It did have something to do with an army, and it did happen in Germany – you are both correct. However, I do not suppose that the words 'Sturm Abteilung' mean anything to you. Am I mistaken?"

Rick couldn't help but exchange a puzzled glance with Jonathan and Ferguson, who both glanced back, looking equally lost. Where was all of this leading to?

"I might have known. Well, gentlemen, know then that Adolf Hitler did not come to power all by himself – not quite. He had help, as all leaders do. In his case, there were faithful followers who had been behind him as early as the mid-Twenties, and who had been organised into a sort of alternate army.

"Now, three years ago – although things must have been planned long before – decisions were made to remove the SA, as they were called for short, from the scene. As it turns out, they were starting to be a nuisance rather than a support to Hitler: although the most part was still faithful to him, they had quite a bad reputation among the German people, and the German people's unquestioning faith in their Fuhrer is something Hitler ever seeks and relies on. Furthermore, there were whispers of discontent among the SA themselves that their Fuhrer had forgotten whom he owned his very power as the Chancellor to in the first place.

"These kind of whispers came completely expected, even hoped-for. Three years ago, on the pretence of quelling a plot, Hitler secretly ordered that the main leaders of the Sturm Abteilung be eliminated."

_Jeez_. Rick still couldn't for the life of him see the point that Hamilton guy intended to make, but the whole business definitely smelt mighty foul. Glancing at the two other Englishmen, he could see that, while Ferguson's brown eyes were narrowing, Jonathan's blue eyes had gone rounder.

"Oh, that reminds me …" he said. "Yes, I remember now – some papers had written about it, made quite a scandal at the time –"

"My, what a memory the public has." Hamilton rolled his eyes. "In any case, what the papers did not print, was that the actual number of 'victims' was not sixty-one, as the Nazi government stated, but over four hundreds."

"Four –" Rick was barely aware of his mouth falling slightly open. He goggled at Hamilton for a little while, long enough for the thought to really sink in. Four hundred people killed just for the sake of a reputation… Well, not quite, but still… He remembered what Cazenave had told him, back in the Legion, about executions of rebels in the army during the last war. How they had been court-martialled and shot to show the others how the officers dealt with 'traitors'. Rick remembered the grim expression in the Frenchman's eyes as he told him that the actual number of victims of such 'operations' was surely much bigger than what he had heard.

But there… The huge number made things suddenly look huge. Four hundreds. _Shit_.

"Yes, gentlemen," said Hamilton, and there was something sinister in his false smile as he looked at the three of them. "Sort of boggles the mind, doesn't it? Of course, I was not supposed to know this fact. It took a little personal investigation for me to discover it. But you see, I had motivations." There he stopped, and continued in an absolutely flat tone, totally devoid of emotion, "One of my second cousins – 'disappeared' at this time."

Rick, Jonathan and Ferguson looked at each other.

"Allow me to display a few facts of my familial history. Victor – the cousin I am talking about – came from the German side of the family, and had lived all his life in the country his mother was born in. As it turns out, he became infatuated with Hitler's idea of a new Germany, and climbed step by step the ladder to higher ranks of the SA. I think he was the equivalent of our rank of sergeant when the Night of the Long Knives came to pass.

"As the German government gave our family no account whatsoever of what had befallen Victor, I decided to do research on my own. My rank in the Chamber of Horus began to be useful when I discovered the Germans' – and more specifically Hitler's – interest in the occult, and quite soon I had a contact of my own in the Nazi government."

"D'you mean you traded pieces of information about our treasures for information about your cousin!" Ferguson asked, sounding shocked. Hamilton didn't even look at him.

"Quiet, Ferguson. No, I did not do research on my cousin only. When I discovered that they had had him executed, I did not broach the subject anymore and concentrated instead on the Nazis' future plans. My contact was – rather stupidly, I have to say – glad to give me details on what they were going to do to Europe and Britain in particular. No need to say that I had him done away with as soon as he became too dangerous."

"Ain't you afraid a cousin of his will investigate his death?" said Rick, sarcastically.

"I do not have this sort of fear. In any case, what I learned there is the reason of your presence here."

"Could you by any chance be more precise?" Jonathan asked.

"I could." The Englishman's voice, from low and chilly, turned downright creepy at this point. "Gentlemen, something terrible is about to happen. I do not know when, but someday, soon, a black order will sweep over Europe, a denial of all the values of Christianity, and the world as we know it will be over."

Despite the fact that this had to be one of the most ridiculous ideas he had ever heard, Rick couldn't help but feel a little unsettled by the guy's flat, dead serious tone, and the total lack of light in his cold grey eyes.

"That's what your 'contact' told you?" Rick said, not wanting this creep to think he believed this load of bullshit for one second. "Could've picked something more original. We're kinda used to 'the end of the world as we know it', ya know."

He had the small satisfaction of hearing a quiet Southern England chuckle coming from behind him. At least his brother-in-law's sense of humour appeared to be intact.

Hamilton glanced at him with a look of intense disgust, to which Rick replied with a fake grin.

"Oh," Hamilton said, gritting his teeth, "because you have witnessed Imhotep's rising twice, you think you are prepared for everything? You fools, I am not talking about science-fiction mummies waking up from the dead!"

"Because what happened at Hamunaptra and Ahm Shere is science-fiction now, is it?" Jonathan exclaimed before Rick could say anything. "Not sure that those who died back there would agree with you, old chap." There was genuine anger in his eyes, and a tiny something in his voice quivered as he finished his sentence. Rick didn't even have to look at him to know that the both of them were thinking about the same person who 'died' back there.

Ferguson looked at his old friend with an odd expression in his eyes, but didn't say anything. Maybe he was thinking about the same thing.

"What I meant to say –" Hamilton's voice grew louder "– was that Imhotep is nothing compared to what Adolf Hitler plans to do. He was an evil, yes, but an evil of another age – Hitler is (or will be) _the_ evil of our age. Has none of you read _Mein__ Kampf_? Do you not understand that he will do – and is in fact doing – exactly as he says? If he can order to kill hundreds of people, what will stop him from killing thousands?"

Despite what Evy liked to call his 'matter-of-fact' nature, which undoubtedly referred to his habit of believing only what he could see with his own eyes, Rick was starting to get a bit uneasy. This guy seemed deadly serious. And what was more, he did sound like he completely believed what he was saying. But …

"I still have a question. What does all this shit have to do with us?"

Hamilton's lips curled in a sort of smile. "Nothing – and everything. In fact, the real point of your being here is Ahm Shere."

"Ahm Shere!" _What the –_

"Thought it was supposed to be science-fiction," Jonathan sneaked in, his eyes narrowed like each time he was thinking hard and fast. Usually it was when he was trying to come up with an escape plan – and the person he was trying to escape was usually Evy.

"You know, Mr Carnahan –" Hamilton turned for a second to him with something that looked like sarcasm in his eyes, otherwise seemingly devoid of any expression, "You are remarkably sounding like somebody who would like to pass for a complete idiot. But I'm going to assume that you are not and resume my explanation."

"You do that, old boy, while I send for my duelling pistols."

Rick glanced at Jonathan. The man still looked a little bit pale, but he was actually smirking slightly. Though maybe this had something to do with the fact that he didn't have a gun pointed at him this time.

"So very droll," Hamilton said flatly. "Now, where was I?"

"Ahm Shere," replied a chorus of three voices, one American and the other two English.

Hamilton cast a withering glance at Ferguson. The Englishman winced.

"When you are quite finished with this childish behaviour, perhaps I might tell you the exact reason of your betraying your former school friend, Ferguson," he said, in a voice that made Rick very glad he wasn't in Ferguson's shoes right now. "Now, Ahm Shere.

"I cannot remember a time when I wasn't fascinated with this legend. The oasis lost in the great desert – the pyramid in the middle of the luxuriant, but deadly wild forest – and the fact that this pyramid was said to be made of gold undoubtedly had its attraction. But to tell the truth, all these legendary things were not what really did focus my attention. Indeed, what I was most interested in, ever since the very beginning, was the Army of Anubis."

_Funny_, Rick mused. _Archaeologists never seem to dream about normal stuff. My own wife dreams about old, dusty, decaying books and all this guy can think about is an old, decaying army – which, incidentally, doesn't exist anymore._

"Well, too bad for you," came Jonathan's voice. "Place's closed. Last time I heard, the Army was gone."

"If you would be so kind as to not interrupting me for trifling details such as this," Hamilton said icily, "I would greatly appreciate it. If the three of you were a little more aware about Egyptian history, then you would know the full story of Ahm Shere."

"What, about the Scorpion King, how he sold his soul to Anubis so that he could have a nice big bad army to kick his opponents' collective ass, was then sucked into the pyramid, how Hafez and his pals woke Imhotep up two years ago so that he could kick the Scorpion King's ass, so that his army would be _his_, you mean?" Rick had said that quickly, without even taking breaths between words. Hamilton looked at him, one grey eyebrow raised in obvious disdain.

"A_me_ricans."

"Hey, watch it, you," Jonathan said, frowning. This got a quick grin from Rick as an old memory made its way back into his mind.

"Your depiction is more or less accurate, Mr O'Connell," Hamilton admitted, rather reluctantly it seemed. "The Army of Anubis was bestowed upon the Scorpion King as a gift, a token of his alliance with the jackal-god, and so logically disappeared in the blink of an eye when you killed the Scorpion King with the Sceptre of Osiris. I wouldn't be mistaken if I was to say this is all you know, would I? However, it is not the entire truth."

"What d'you mean, 'not the entire truth'?" Rick asked, frowning. "I did kill the Scorpion King!"

"Oh yes, you undoubtedly did," Hamilton snapped. "However, this 'truth' lies more with the Army of Anubis than with the Scorpion King. For know this, gentlemen: though Mathayus is dead, the army that used to be his remains, buried deep under the sand that now covers Ahm Shere."

"Wait," Rick interrupted, taken aback by the enormity of the news, "this means that these freakish jackal-headed things Ardeth told us about aren't gone! And who the hell is this Mathayus?"

"Mathayus was the name of the Scorpion King, when he was still human," Ferguson said quietly. Rick almost started. Truth to tell, he had all but forgotten the guy was there at all.

"Thanks," he said quickly, rather reluctantly, before turning back to Hamilton, "But I thought – hell, _we_ all thought that, once the Scorpion King was dead, his army was sent back to the Underworld?"

"It _is_ true, in a way," Hamilton explained, with the tiniest touch of patience in his voice. "But then, you surely remember that the Creature Imhotep intended to kill the Scorpion King to take command of the Army of Anubis?"

"Sure, we're not likely to forget that, are we?" Jonathan chimed in.

"Then you will see it makes sense. I presume that Mr O'Connell here did not kill the Scorpion King in order to own his army, did he?"

Rick shrugged wordlessly, having to admit it.

"By killing Mathayus, you have stopped his army – for a while. But what you don't seem to be aware of, is that the pact he made with Anubis demanded worthiness of him. By allowing you to kill him, he proved unworthy of the god's trust, and so from this moment was denied the Army."

"Ok, I get it. Whoever killed the Scorpion King proved his worth, and got the Army of Anubis as a reward afterwards, right?" Despite the fact that it sounded rather far-fetched, Rick had to admit that it did make sense, in a twisted sort of way. But how come Ardeth hadn't told them about it?

Maybe the Medjai just didn't know. The thought came in the form of a nasty pang as Rick realised he'd always expected them – and especially Ardeth – to know just about everything that went on in Egypt. Well, it was their job, in a way; and they always did seem to loom in the background, taking care of everything that needed to be taken care of.

They were human beings. There must be _some_ things they didn't know.

Too bad it turned out to be this kind of small detail.

"Precisely, although I would certainly not put it this way." Hamilton sounded almost pleased to see that his audience listened so carefully. "It is written somewhere that the Army of Anubis shall come to whoever claims it after Anubis' servant proves unworthy. And it just so happens that, on June 29th – that's next Wednesday, as you may have guessed, and the new moon of this month – the Egyptian year changes. We will enter the Year of the Jackal – the year Anubis is most celebrated. And, supposedly, the year when he is at his most powerful."

"And what does all this stuff have to do with Hitler?" Jonathan asked. Hamilton got a funny look in his eyes at that. Something that Rick remembered from somewhere, though he couldn't place it.

"Have you listened nothing of what I said?" the older Englishman said, his grey eyes suddenly ablaze. "Is it so hard to put two and two together – can you not see what I'm getting at? Hitler has the power to do more harm to humanity than Imhotep and the Scorpion King themselves could ever dream of – and what's more, he is planning to _use_ this power!"

Rick's jaw dropped in spite of him. He'd just understood. "Jeez Louise… You're gonna send the Army of Anubis in Germany to kill Hitler –"

"– And wipe out Germany in the process?" Jonathan's face had turned very white in very little time, and he looked as though he'd just been punched in the stomach. Then again, Rick reflected that he himself must look more or less the same.

"I would say something along these lines, yes," Hamilton answered calmly.

To say the silence that fell in the room was heavy would have been a hell of an understatement. Rick's eyes remained fixed on Hamilton's steady, expressionless gaze, his square face, his clean black suit, unable to keep himself from wondering at the strange turns situations tended to get as soon as they and Egypt were involved. Maybe – like what he knew about America – the country just tended to attract nutcases.

"Look, buddy …" he finally said hesitatingly, after an intake of breath, "There's no way your bosses would let you do that. I mean, yeah, maybe Hitler's an asshole and a complete psycho, but there're _laws_ you just can't ignore! Hey, what about the other Germans, eh? D'you really wanna send this freakish, blood-thirsty army on them? They didn't do anything to you!"

"Not mentioning," came Jonathan's shaky voice from behind him, "it's not even that certain that the Army of Anubis will obey you, right?"

"What is your point? Of course it will obey me – it obeys the one who claims it, the legend says so!" snapped Hamilton. Rick rolled his eyes.

"I admit this is not the right place in the world to say that, but – Christ, you mustn't always take this kind of fairy tales and hokum at face value!"

"Yeah –" Jonathan's voice sounded a bit firmer, "– he's right. Take Ahm Shere: the pyramid supposed to be made of gold and all – well, I've seen the bloody thing close, and I can tell you, it's _not_ gold."

In other circumstances, Rick would have snorted. His brother-in-law obviously regretted the fact that reality had not matched legend on this particular point.

But Hamilton looked dead set. He could have been deaf to what they had said, for all his expression changed. "Do not waste time," he said coldly. "You will not make me change my mind. I'll let you know that you have no choice – you haven't had any choice ever since you were asked to take the Diamond to England."

_Oh, shit!_ "What d'you mean – when was this stunt set up?"

"It has been for a long time, actually," Hamilton answered, his voice dangerously low. "It began when you, Mr Carnahan, sold the Diamond of Ahm Shere to the Cairo Museum of Antiquities – but I believe it was truly set in motion when Italy finished invading Ethiopia, that is only a few months after the events of Ahm Shere. However, if you speak of my projects, you may as well know that they are my own. No orders were given to me. I took the initiative in retrieving the Diamond – which shall be needed in time – and bringing you here."

"I'd still like to know what this has to do with us," Rick mumbled, still trying to remember where he had seen something like the funny look Hamilton had had in his eyes.

"Quite simple, in fact. You, Mr O'Connell, are the one who killed the Scorpion King, so we figured it would be a good thing to have you with us; now, as for Mr Carnahan… Let's just say that as one who entered and got out of the Pyramid of Ahm Shere, you are what I could familiarly call an added bonus."

"Blimey, I'm flattered," said Jonathan, sarcastic. "Now, there's something I'd like to know – why did you pick me and not somebody useful like my sister? _She_'s the real specialist, you know."

"Besides the fact that, through Ferguson here, you were the one who led us to the Diamond of Ahm Shere – well, I imagine that you just were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Jonathan looked down at his shoes, his hands in his pockets. "Yeah… Well. I guess it just tends to happen a lot with me, doesn't it?"

Something clicked into place out of nowhere in Rick's mind. That look. Hamilton's. That Hafez guy had had the same back in the pyramid, when he had walked past him on his way to slaughtering that bastard Imhotep and the bitch who had killed his wife. The Curator had his hand stuck in the statue of a scorpion at that moment, and there had been triumph and something else, something wild in his eyes, so utterly convinced he was that his 'Lord Imhotep' would 'take command'.

Rick suddenly felt sick. This man, this Hamilton – he was just as utterly convinced that he would be doing the right thing in murdering thousands of people, innocent or not. Anubis' Army aside, the sheer thought of someone capable of something like that was scary. No, not scary. It was terrifying.

Hamilton looked at them and said, ever so polite, "Well, gentlemen, it has been a delight talking with you, but there is some business I must tend to. Good afternoon, and be sure we will be seeing one another in the near future."

He walked over to the door, with a brief glance at Ferguson who lingered, his brown eyes shifting from Jonathan to Rick, his broad face looking a little green around the edges. "Well, Ferguson! Should I lock you up as well?"

"N–no sir, I'm comin'," the Englishman sputtered in a strained voice. He walked out first, without looking back.

As Hamilton crossed the threshold, Rick, unable to help himself, said hotly, "What makes you think we're gonna let you do that? There are people out there whose only job is to protect the world from creeps like you – besides, I really don't wanna be in your shoes when my wife gets to you."

Hamilton let out a low chuckle.

"And what, pray tell, makes you think I'm going to allow myself to be stopped?"

And on these last words, he closed the door.

* * *

Well… I'm not really that happy about this chapter – got the impression that it dragged on and on, despite my beta reader's assertions that it didn't. Was it so bad or is it just me ? Let me know :) Anyway, I'll do better next time! 

Wow, I got a whole bunch of reviews!

**_EggSalad_** A dialectic essay? Sounds quite nasty… What is it, anyway? Oh, now that I'm back to class, I could at least view your card, so thanks very much for that. Even if it was a bit late… it's the thought that counts :o) So, were you right about Tommy? What exactly did you think of him? Did this chapter confirm you in the idea? Anyway, yep, you were right about Elizabeth Ferguson all the way :D Now, don't you go guessing the rest of the story or I won't have anything to post! Sorry, joking. Because I can tell you, I'm leading this baby to something I hope will be a surprise for y'all :o) Now, about Ardeth and Jon… It's funny really, because while Rick and Ardeth do have the potential of an in-depth friendship (how many stories feature the two of them as brothers in the Seti/Imhotep/Anck-su-nanum timeline?), we don't see much interaction between Jon and Ardeth, but the little we see is generally that kind of dynamic. Besides, it shows us that Ardeth _does_ have a sense of humour after all :o) I hope you liked this chapter even though it was so much exposition. I'd like to hear what you thought of Hamilton… See if your thought match mine – and the characters'… :o)

**_Eris_** Thanks :o) My memory's not unlike yours, and it's always difficult to find something like yesterday's classes in the midst of the whole big mess of things jumbled together. I don't know the game you speak of, "hounds and jackals", but then it's probably a culture thing. I bet you've never heard of "postman hasn't come" or such games French kids play at in the playground :o)

**_Lilylynn_** I can't always update as quickly as I want to, dear, sorry; for instance a week before the holidays I was so sick I didn't leave home; then I went to my parents' for Christmas and they have such a crappy connection I don't think I could've done much. Then the last week of the holidays I didn't have access at all to Internet. So I'm updating as quickly as I can, but we're all humans, aren't we :o) Anyway, thanks for your support since the first chapter – hope this one doesn't disappoint you!

**_Laurie:_** Thanks a lot for this kind word, sweetheart, I really appreciated it; you know how I value your work as a beta, and I'm really lucky to have you correct the many mistakes of those late chapters! From now on, you'll really be the first ever to see them, and I hope they won't disappoint you :o) Thanks again, and I can't wait for you to post something!

**_STC:_** wow, how enthusiastic you are! Thanks for that :o) Don't worry, I don't think I'll wait 5 months to update, unless a meteor falls on both my arms and I can't type for months. I actually spend more time on this story than I spend on my thesis, so right after I post this chapter I'll hurry up to the library to do some research. I'm really glad you're liking this story enough to post a review at almost every single new chapter! Thanks again :o)

**_Benign:_** Yes, Jon _is_ huggable, isn't he? ;o) I don't like it much either when fans call him a coward. Partly because there is a lot in him that I recognise in myself, but especially because, well, where did people get this idea? Sure, he yells and runs a lot, but wouldn't you, if you had a 3000-year-old walking, talking mummy or a bunch of nasty creepy little pygmy things behind you? And there's also the fact that, in TMR, he actually carries the luggage ;D _And_ he nicks stuff well. Gotta remember that :o)

**_Poppylena_** It's the thought that counts, my friend, and I very much appreciate you leaving a review. Thanks for your comment about Jonathan – but I hope you liked the other characters as well :o)

**_Adele:_** I'm putting on the chapters one at a time, because 1) it makes it easier to my beta to correct the numerous mistakes and 2) I guess I just enjoy seeing you suffer :D Thanks for your review, and the explanation of the word "mint" – I learned a new word that day, yay:o)

Well, I'm posting this and sending the 10th chapter to my beta reader. In the meantime, peace, love, and bananas to all of you – see you later!


	10. In the Presence of Another World

**Author's Notes:** Well, it's good to be back! Not that I was away long, mind, but it's always so good when you get to post something. So I present you with the chapter my lovely beta-reader sent me just before the weekend – trouble is, when I stay home in Bordeaux I can have access to Internet only through the university library. So there :o) The title is a song by Blue Öyster Cult, and I'd thought it fitted the mood – and what happened. Basically, Alex wonders, Evy ponders, and Tom makes a bold move :o)

Oh, and those (and there is a whole lot of you!!) who liked/loved Laurie M's _Deeper Within Darkness_ can check the sequel, _Chasing Shadows_. First chapter looks fantastic – go, Laurie :o)

_Disclaimer: A friend of mine who's not into fanfiction asked some things about what I was reading/writing and, as someone who likes the matters of law and how it applies to the Internet community, she also asked me about the disclaimer. So I said that, basically, I stated that although I used characters, names and various things that were invented by others (in this case Steve Sommers) and were owned by other others (in this case Universal Pictures), there were some things in my story that were mine and mine alone, such as the characters of 'Charles Hamilton', 'Fahad Hakim', 'Sheik Razek al-Simbel' and 'Abbas' – not to mention 'Tom Ferguson'. And boy, you must be bored to tears if you're reading this. I just hope you're not after my money :P_

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 10: _****_In the Presence of Another World_**

Alex O'Connell usually got up pretty quick in the morning. There was always something interesting to do then, even – especially – on Sundays, when he was the first awake. For instance, grabbing a stool to try and nick some interesting books in the library – those he was forbidden to read, of course. So far, he'd fallen across a number of books with plenty of images about how to make mummies (see Picture n°3 for details), something about medicine and anatomy that left him wondering certain things for a few weeks, and a couple of stupid novels about folks – especially girls – 'discovering life' and doing mushy or yucky stuff. Those had been by far the least interesting. They weren't even funny.

But right now, as he slowly became aware of sounds and things surrounding him, his eyelids still stuck shut by sleep, Alex wasn't in any kind of hurry to wake up. He was curled up in his bed, breathing deeply, and he felt rather good about it. Now he understood what so many people liked about lie-ins.

However, he realised that it was pretty hot inside the room as he brushed his fringe, plastered on his forehead by sweat, from his eyes. He didn't know what time it was, but it seemed that the worst of the afternoon heat was passed; it was dark too, as he noticed, even through his closed eyelids – his mum must have closed the shutters when she had put him to bed last night. Or morning.

Now there was a good question. When had the conversation finished last night? Alex swore inwardly, cursing himself for not staying awake to hear the rest of the conversation. Maybe he hadn't heard it, but they had actually found a solution. Heck, knowing Ardeth and the Medjai in general, maybe they'd already set up some sort of miracle plan to get his dad and uncle out of whatever place those strange guys had taken them to.

Alex's eyes popped open as if of their own accord. Maybe his dad was already here. Maybe if he went over to his parents' room, he'd find his mum and dad sleeping in each other's arms. Maybe Uncle Jon would then stumble out of his own room, yawning and scratching his neck, walking with his eyes closed and bumping into the walls until he fixed himself some tea. And he and Alex would grouse in chorus because, as usual, Mum and Dad would hug and kiss and stuff.

For a second, this wild hope turned Alex's heart upside down, and he sat up quickly, almost expecting all of this to happen. A half-second later, he started when he saw Ardeth Bay sitting on a chair a few feet away. And the wild hope that had flared for a second in his chest died down, leaving the boy with a very slight knot in his stomach.

"Good, you're awake. I thought that you might wake up before your mother."

Alex made a quick mental note of never laughing at Uncle Jon again when Ardeth startled him by appearing out of the blue, and asked, a bit puzzled, "What're you doing here?"

Ardeth actually gave a grin. Discreet, but a real one. "This question seems to come back a lot where I'm concerned."

"Yeah …" Alex ran a hand through his hair. His neck was soaked. "I s'ppose. Sorry."

"Do not be. I came here to bring some news. And bring back the letter to your mother."

"What letter?"

"When your mother came home this morning, she found a letter from the men who have taken your father and your uncle. But it is nothing of great importance."

'_Nothing of great importance_' It _was_ important if it was from the kidnappers! "What'd it say?"

Ardeth looked at him seriously. "It only meant to frighten your mother. But I highly doubt that she would be frightened so easily."

_Yep, he's got a point there_. "Mum?" Alex gave a broad grin. "She's afraid of nothing."

"Don't you think that's giving me a little too much credit?" came a soft voice by the door. Alex hadn't even heard his mum entering the room.

She came to sit on his bed and ran a tender hand through his hair, smiling. And he let her do, because even if it was a tad embarrassing to have his mum fuss over him in front of people, well … she was his mum. And, come to think of it, Ardeth wasn't 'people'. Ardeth was Ardeth – almost family.

"How are you, Evelyn?" Ardeth asked. She rubbed the back of her neck and blinked a couple of times.

"I'm fine, thank you." She did look tired, though, Alex thought, looking at the slight bags under her eyes. "Do you have news? What did you make of that letter? And why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"Well," Ardeth said slowly, but firmly, "you needed rest. That as much was obvious. As for the letter …" He stopped and dug the said letter from a pocket in his robes and handed it to Evelyn. "… There it is. It only proves what we talked about last night – O'Connell' and Jonathan's kidnapping has something to do with the Diamond of Ahm Shere. All this letter tells you to do is to wait until they are returned – no ransom demand, no clear instructions at all. According to what I know of kidnappings, this one seems very peculiar."

It sure did. In every film Alex had seen so far, when people – usually pretty blonde girls – got kidnapped, their kidnappers asked for a nice big ransom. Of course, they never could get it, because the fearless dashing hero always managed to save the girl in time.

Watching movies in theatres was both less and more fun than when the adventure stuff happened to you and your family.

Mum nodded, not looking at anything in particular; then her eyes swiftly shifted back to Ardeth. "So, do you have any news?"

A slight smile slowly made its way across Ardeth's face. "Yes," he said. "That's why I came here. I've just heard – word of mouth, again – that Tom Ferguson has been sighted in the village of Nazlet El Samman, near Giza."

Evelyn's eyes went rounder, "Then what are we waiting for? If someone can give us any answers, this man can – and now we know where he is!"

Alex jumped quickly out of bed and began looking for his clothes, "Comin' in a tick!" He was grateful to see his mum and Ardeth going out of the room, no doubt to give him a little more privacy. Or rather, he was grateful that Ardeth walked over to the door and stepped aside to let Mum out; she would surely have wanted to help Alex get dressed, and although the hugs and kisses were kind of okay, the idea of a mum helping a ten-year old lad to get dressed just made his skin crawl. After all, he did have some sort of reputation at school.

When he ran into the living room to join them, dishevelled, his tie undone and all but dragging his jacket on the floor, they were waiting for him – he only had time to wonder how his mum had managed to change clothes so quickly when there was a knock on the door.

Ardeth turned to Evelyn. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No," she answered, sounding unsure. She glanced into the bag she was carrying, and Alex saw with surprise – mingled with not a little bit of excitement – that she had brought a small number of Dad's guns. Did he miss something – were they going to fight?

She walked carefully to the door, and opened it in a swift gesture.

Alex's mouth fell open.

On the threshold stood the most extraordinary old man he'd ever seen – and this was saying a lot. He was very lean, but quite tall, and almost seemed to be blocking the light of sunset that came behind him. He wore long black robes embroidered with what looked like thin gold thread, a white turban and a long, light white scarf, one end of which fell down on his chest. But the most unusual was his face. The long white beard made stark contrast against the bronzed colour of his face, his cheekbones were high and his nose was long and thin; it was probably his eyes, though, that stood out most. Slanted and black, they seemed to be thousands of years old, with the wisdom that comes with long life that Alex had seen when he had met some of the older Medjai. Those eyes made him feel like some sort of ghost from Ancient Egypt was staring at him, hidden in the envelope of a stately old Egyptian man.

"Good evening," the apparition said in a low, deep voice. "Are you Dr Evelyn O'Connell?"

Realising he was gawping at the newcomer – and probably not looking particularly smart in the process – Alex shut his mouth and looked at his mum. Evelyn blinked, an astonished expression on her face, then gave a nod, her eyes not leaving the old man's face.

"Y–yes, I am," she said at last, gradually regaining her usual assurance. "What … I'm sorry – who are you?"

A small smile – it looked like one to Alex, anyway – stretched the strange man's thin lips, and he gave a slight bow. "I am Sheikh Razek al-Simbel, and I dwell at Nazlet El Samman, near Giza. However, I have other, higher duties."

Glancing at Ardeth, Alex thought he saw something like recognition flash in his eyes.

"Indeed, if I am here to speak with you, it is not as the Sheikh, but as the High Priest of Osiris."

_Right.__ Curiouser and curiouser, like they say._ The whole thing was becoming wilder and wilder.

To Alex's relative relief, his mum looked just as nonplussed as he felt. After a few seconds, though, she stepped aside to let the stranger in.

"I thank you," he said, in that extraordinarily deep voice of his. "You must be Commander Bay," he added, turning to Ardeth, who bowed respectfully. "I have heard of your deeds and that of your people. You deserve great praise."

"I did nothing," Ardeth said slowly, "but lead a courageous and honourable people to battle while four persons I am honoured to call my friends –" and there was something in his eyes that smiled as he glanced very briefly at Evelyn and Alex "– held the fate of the world in their hands. The Scorpion King was vanquished thanks to them, not us."

"Really?" Something like a smile twinkled in the dark slanted eyes. "Well, seldom have I seen a Commander so modest. If the nobility of your soul equals your modesty, then the Medjai people is fortunate to have you as their Commander, young Ardeth Bay."

For a half-second – a quarter, really – Alex thought he saw more colour on Ardeth's cheeks. Maybe it was just an illusion, because the next second, he looked his usual calm, mysterious self. Still, despite the seriousness of the situation, Alex couldn't completely suppress a snort at the thought of Ardeth Bay blushing.

The Sheikh glanced swiftly in his direction, and suddenly the boy felt his own cheeks grow distinctly hot. _Darn it._

But Sheikh al-Simbel didn't say anything. Instead he turned to look at Evelyn, who said quickly, "I'm sorry if I sound rude, but – what is the reason of your presence here? Why did you come all the way from Giza to my house?"

"You are not rude at all, Dr O'Connell. In fact, if someone here was forgetting their manners, it would be me." He spoke an elegant, flowing English, without any trace of accent, although it did sound as if a textbook was speaking instead of an actual person. Kind of like Ardeth, actually, minus the accent. "You were about to go outside, I see, weren't you?"

Alex saw the dark eyes dart from the jacket he still clutched in his hand to his mum's shoes. _Elementary, my dear Watson_.

"Yes, in fact we were," said Evelyn, sounding a bit desperate. "My husband and my brother have been gone for twenty-four hours now, and we're looking for a man who might know something about their disappearance – we've heard that he was in Nazlet El Samman a little while ago, perhaps you –"

"Calm yourself, Dr O'Connell," Sheikh al-Simbel said slowly. "If you are speaking of Thomas Ferguson, it was he who sent me to you."

Alex's jaw hit the floor for the second time in ten minutes, and it wasn't the only one to do so. The next thing he felt was a hot surge of anger, one not unlike what had coursed through him when he had heard that Ferguson had been a traitor all along. Oh, he wasn't going to fall for stuff like that twice.

"You're with _them_, aren't you?" he shouted, making his mother jump slightly. "You're with those who took them! You –"

"_Alex!_" Evelyn and Ardeth had both spoken sharply, almost snapped, and while it didn't make his anger die down, it sure as hell surprised him enough to calm down a bit. Especially considering the double bright glare that went with the words. It was hard to tell whose eyes were flashing hardest.

When there was something in your Mum's eyes that was not unlike the look the most powerful Medjai Alex knew got in his eyes when he was genuinely furious, you knew you'd got yourself into trouble. Big time.

"Right," he mumbled in the end, sobered up a bit. Through his blond fringe he looked up at the Sheikh, "Sorry."

The Sheikh's eyes looked sterner than his voice sounded when he said, "I understand your tongue ran quicker than your thoughts, young master O'Connell. From the information I could gather about all this, your reaction is comprehensible."

While he turned to Evelyn and exchanged a few words with her, Ardeth slipped quietly to Alex's side, and whispered, "What you must understand, Alexander, is that this man is in his own way more powerful than any king or emperor – he is the last High Priest of Osiris, the Keeper of the Dead, and although he may not appear so, he knows things and can do things that are beyond imagination. And he is very, very old."

Something in his words struck a chord in Alex. "W-wait", he said, "Priest of Osiris? You mean, like Imhotep?"

Ardeth looked a tad uneasy, but he nodded, "Yes, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named fulfilled this duty before he became the Creature. He was the second most powerful man in Egypt, right after Pharaoh, as has every High Priest been before and since. Razek al-Simbel has inherited the powers and the knowledge of five thousand years. Some even say he was gifted with long life – something I tend to agree with, since both my grandfather and my great-grandfather knew him to be what he is."

_Whoa …_ Alex made a mental count, and his eyes widened. "Jeez! He's not _that_ old, is he?"

"He is," Ardeth said with a slight smile. "So, as your mother would say if she was listening to us right now, mind your manners when you address him. Not necessarily, as Fahad said yesterday, because you ought to 'keep quiet whilst the elders speak' – but simply out of respect for a man wiser than most."

That was Ardeth for you. One second, he could be all gloom and doom, shoot you down with a single glare, and pull it off thanks to his usual mysterious demeanour; the next, his eyes twinkled, a smile was playing at the corner of his mouth, and you knew nothing bad would happen to you. "Right," Alex said with a grin. "Well, I'm glad I did apologise. Could've turned nasty for me otherwise, couldn't it?"

"You overreacted because you were driven by anger and concern. I can tell you that, having known your family for eleven years, I'm not unfamiliar with such a reaction." Ardeth shook his head. "You truly are your father's son in many ways," he added with a real, fully-fledged grin.

Alex grinned back, his chest swelling with pride. The last person who had said that to him had been Imhotep, so it was quite a nice change to hear it coming from Ardeth Bay.

On the other hand … Alex remembered his dad's reaction when Mum had been kidnapped by Lock-Nah and his men – lashing out at Ardeth as if he was the one who'd brought the guys in red to their house and slamming him against that statue. Oh sure, as Alex understood it, he'd more or less apologised afterwards, but it was also true that Rick never seemed to be really comfortable whenever Ardeth was around. Each time, for the first few seconds anyway, he seemed to be expecting some sort of catastrophe that would eventually lead to the kidnapping of a member of the family, and, incidentally, to the end of the world. _Guess you can call that overreacting._

That said, ever since Ahm Shere, Dad had seemed to make an effort not to 'overreact' anymore when Ardeth dropped by to say hello when they went to some dig site or other in Egypt – probably, Alex thought, thanks to Mum, who all but chided his Dad for being so ridiculously superstitious. The little he'd been able to see of Dad's face from the staircase where he was hiding when she had told him that had been hilarious.

So the comment was both a praise and a dig. Knowing Ardeth, he should have known.

Alex gave a crooked grin, and the Medjai leader laid a hand on his shoulder briefly before turning to Mum and the Sheikh.

And from what he picked up of the conversation, it was _very_ interesting. Not to mention scary as hell.

* * *

Tom Ferguson was back in his small office. After he absent-mindedly finished writing the report he'd abandoned earlier to go and see Jon and O'Connell, he had leant back in his chair, put his feet on his desk, and stared at the ceiling where a fan turned round and round, supposedly to bring some air in the sultry room. The bloody fan had been turning for something like three hours now, and been failing its purpose completely. 

He felt sick to the stomach. Literally. And not because of the spinning fan.

He would never, in all the world, have guessed the extent of Hamilton's 'projects'. Even if he did have some sort of idea about why they had taken the diamond and its former owners in the first place – the idea being that the diamond somehow allowed entrance into the Pyramid of Ahm Shere – he had to admit to himself that he had had no clue as to what they would do once inside the pyramid, until the conversation in the basement of a house in Giza a few hours ago.

He would never have guessed that Hamilton wanted to use a legendary army to destroy a whole _nation of people_!

_Jesus._

The fan turned and turned on the ceiling, but it didn't come even close to the speed Tom's mind was spinning. The last time he had felt so sick was in the Diamond's chamber in the Museum, when Bane and his guys had burst in through the door; he'd whirled round just in time to see Jon crumple lifelessly to the floor, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and Bane standing above him with a smug smile on his grim face. At that moment, Tom had felt a violent desire to take the sceptre thing Jon had held in his hands and bash Bane's head with all his might. But he had controlled himself – with an effort – and yelled at Bane, "_What'd you do to him?! You just had to stun him, that's all!_"

"_I did stun him, Ferguson,_" Bane had said, perfectly calm, and Tom fought back once more the desire to strangle him. "_I just did what I was told._"

"That_'s not called stunning, you idiot,_" Tom had retorted sharply. "_You nearly smashed his head in, for Pete's sake!_" He walked over to Jon, ignoring the movement in the back of the room indicating that the diamond was being placed in some sort of basket, all the while glaring at his fellow agent. "_If he's dead, then so help me __…_"

Bane had looked at him with disdain as he put two fingers on his friend's neck, and couldn't help letting out a slight sigh of relief. Of course Jon wasn't dead. Bane could be a pain in the arse and a downright bastard, but he was a good agent, and he obeyed orders. But Tom never trusted him. Some other agents he trusted, some even were good friends, but Arthur Bane … Well, maybe it was the way he enjoyed missions like this one a little too much. As a general rule, agents must never let their personal feelings be taken into account – that led to way too many problems.

He had stood up and looked around the room, to meet with the gaze of the young assistant, Jamal Hassan. The boy looked at him sadly for a few seconds, then followed the other agents in charge of the diamond up a rope ladder to the broken window and outside.

Tom turned back to Bane, who kept smirking at him. "_What're you lookin' at?_"

Bane's smirk widened. "_Oh, just wondering how it felt to betray someone who thought of you as a friend. The two of you were friends once, right?_"

Tom's eyes flickered down to Jon's still body for a second, then back up to Bane. "_That's right,_" he'd said coldly, "_I forgot – _you_'ve never had any friends to betray._"

Bane's smirk slipped off and turned into a glare. It had been on this small victory that Tom had allowed another fellow agent to knock him on the head, and his last conscious thought was relief that it hadn't been Bane.

The fan kept turning, but although Tom's eyes were still fixed on it, it wasn't what he was really seeing. Instead, he was picturing an army of jackal-like soldiers devastating countries, slaughtering the inhabitants, and sweeping across the world like dark waves with nothing to stop them. Because Jon did have a point. If the army existed, the god Anubis would be the only one to truly control it, and Hamilton was an established nutcase.

Not that he wasn't already. God, for all the time Tom thought he was just a control freak with the proverbial umbrella stuck up his –

The chair gave a nasty crack and Tom almost fell over, arms wheeling in an attempt to regain his balance. It worked, and he sprung out of the chair before it gave away for good – honestly, the quality of the furniture they were stuck with in this place left much to be desired – and began to pace his smallish room absent-mindedly.

He had to think something up, and quick.

Of course, the number of options he had was a tad limited.

He couldn't go back to Jon and O'Connell now – Hamilton had probably made sure that the two agents would not let him in a second time. And he couldn't go to see Lisa, either, no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much he worried about her.

_Where_ could he go? To _whom_? And to say _what_ – that some mad Englishman wanted to raise the mythical Army of Anubis and claim it for his own?

Tom almost kicked in a pile of books in anger, but his respect for decade-old leather and paper prevented him from actually doing it. Instead, he stopped pacing and took a second look at the books.

The ghost of an idea slowly taking shape in his mind.

He picked up a small book hidden beneath some bigger others, brushed the dust away with his sleeve, and grinned broadly when he managed to make out the title: _A History of the Cult of Osiris in Ancient Egypt_.

_Gotcha_. The outlines of the idea he'd had looked a bit more definite now.

Feverishly, he leafed through to the index, found what he was looking for and read.

"_Although the Pharaoh was considered a living god on Earth, thus being the head of state _and_ religion, the High Priest of Osiris had many powers as head of one of the most important cults in Egyptian mythology, and, aside from him, the priests under his command could only take orders from the Pharaoh in person. As the Keeper of the Dead, he presided over the embalming and burial of those of royal blood, and was in charge of the two legendary books containing all the rituals in Egyptian religion, the Book of the Living and the Book of the Dead._"

Right, this part he already knew. Tom returned to the index and searched it for something … anything … that might be useful to him right now.

"_The High Priesthood was passed on from each dying High Priest to the one he decided was most worthy. No-one knows for sure when exactly the tradition died out. Some say it did during Persian occupation, some others say Greek, others again say Roman, and for some others it disappeared during the Arab occupation of Egypt. But there are a few historians who believe that the Priesthood never factually disappeared, and that there is still a High Priest of Osiris, and that he still has followers, even if they are but a very minor part of the current Egyptian population._"

Tom's eyes darted down the page.

"_If this is true, then the most likely of locations for such a high figure to dwell would be anywhere near the necropolis of Giza, which has stood for millennia as both an emblematic place for solar cult – the gods Ra and Horus being central solar figures, and Horus being the son of Osiris, which demonstrates the close link between the world of the living (Horus, the sun) and the Underworld (Osiris' realm) – and a mythical place, with the statue of the great god Re-Harmakhis (also named Harmakhis-Kephri-Re-Atum), or Sphinx, which has stood there for even longer._"

His heart now racing madly in his chest, Tom put the small book in his pocket and began to rummage about in search of a map of Giza. It took him a little while to find one among the sheer number of files, papers and books lying about, but he finally got his hands on a rather recent map of the plateau of Giza and its surroundings.

He all but swept aside the mess that lay on his desk in a swift gesture, and unfolded the map.

The three pyramids – Mykerinos, Khephren, and Kheops – stood in the centre of the map on a diagonal line; the road to Cairo stretched north of Kheops, and on the right of the Great Pyramid was the smallish Arab village of Nazlet El Samman. The Sphinx nearby looked small in comparison with the two bigger pyramids, forming with them an almost perfect equilateral triangle.

Apart from the Mena House hotels near the road to Cairo, the only lived-in area was Nazlet El Samman.

Tom Ferguson was not an idiot. He knew perfectly well that, alone, there was nothing he could do to help – but there seemed to be a man whose help he could ask for to clear up this nasty business.

Some more research later, Tom was leaving his office, looking carefully round the corners – he didn't know whether Hamilton was paranoid enough to put a shadow on him, but he didn't want to take any chances. He discreetly grabbed a bicycle that was lying about and set off, with the firm intention of returning it later.

He dismounted once in Nazlet El Samman, and headed for the tiny bookshop lost in the midst of houses that looked pretty much similar. Abbas, the bookseller, had sometimes got him out of some tight spots, and over the years he had grown a particular fondness for the old man. Also it didn't hurt that he probably fixed the best damn mint tea in Giza.

The atmosphere of the small room was still the same – dark, hot, with dust flying in the few rays of sun, blinking each time somebody walked in front of the shutters outside. The afternoon light fell on old shelves crammed with Arabic books of various sizes and shapes, but it was too dimmed to light up the back of the room, and Tom almost started when a hand drew back the curtain at the door to the back shop, making the small copper coins hanging to the heavy cloth chink.

"Ah, Tom, my friend." Although his voice was even more hoarse and rasping than it had been last time Tom had seen him, Abbas unveiled his missing teeth in a broad smile. "Is there something I can do for you? Or perhaps you came in here only to pay me a visit?"

"Such was indeed my intention," Tom replied in his rather halting Arabic, returning the grin and following the old bookseller into the back shop where he poured him a cup of steaming tea. "Thank you. I wanted to ask you how you fared – you didn't look so well the last time we saw each other, and I see that it's not much better now. Are you ill?"

"Is old age an illness?" asked the old man, looking at Tom with the intent, cryptic gaze the Englishman had always known him to possess. "If so, yes, I am indeed very ill, my friend. Now, what did you _really_ come to see me for?"

Tom looked down at the table and grinned sheepishly. "All right, I'm sorry … I should've known. Well, I did come to see you, but I am also looking for someone, and I need to find him quick – but I do not know his name."

Abbas looked at him curiously. "Is that so? Tell me, then. If I can help you, I will."

"I know." Tom nodded and swallowed the hot tea. "Well, I don't quite know where to begin …"

"I have no need for explanations, my friend. Only tell me whom it is you seek."

Tom put his cup back on the table, relieved and grateful. "All right, then. What do you know about the High Priest of Osiris?"

Abbas slowly took a sip from his own cup, put it down, and looked at Tom in surprise, "I know not what you are talking about, my friend. Egyptian mythology has not been a living religion for many centuries now."

He looked quite innocent, with his bright eyes shining out of his dark face, and the halo of thin but wild white hair flying around his head. But Tom saw a little colour disappear from his cheeks.

"Come now, Abbas. I know you're lying. I'm serious – I really have to talk to him! Who is he? And where does he live?"

The old bookseller scrutinised Tom's face for a while, before saying softly, "You know I'm lying. You must also know why I'm lying. Why do you expect me to tell you the truth when I know that, in lying, I will protect people?"

There was a silence, and Tom answered hesitatingly, just as softly, "Because I've been doing some lying too, recently, and it has hurt people. I'd like you to tell me the truth because it might set some things right."

Another silence followed his words, and the Englishman began to wonder if he hadn't made a complete fool of himself together with saying something that might have upset Abbas, when the latter gave a genuine grin, warm and kind.

"You are a good man, my friend. Very well, I will help you … Wait here for a minute." He disappeared through the curtain into the shop, and came back with a piece of paper and a pen. He scribbled a name and an address on it, and handed it to Tom.

Tom quickly memorised what was written, having a feeling that he wouldn't be able to keep the piece of paper; sure enough, after a few seconds, Abbas took the paper back and put it in the fire above which the kettle had been boiling.

"Now that you have convinced me," he said, turning from the fire back to Tom, "I hope you realise that, if your motivations are by chance not as honest as I think they are, you will not live to regret it."

Tom swallowed the last of his mint tea and gave a smile. "I'm aware of it, my friend. I want to prevent a catastrophe from happening, that's all."

Abbas accompanied him to the door; once on the threshold, he gave a slight bow, and said in English, "I like you a lot, Tom Ferguson. Take care. And I hope this catastrophe you speak of will not happen."

Tom returned the bow, and smiled, "_Insh'Allah_, my friend. So do I." He picked up the bicycle and looked at Abbas, "And take good care of yourself as well. I might tell you what did happen, someday."

_If we're not all dead by then._

And he pedalled off into the dust and sand, a small lump in his throat – hoping that it would not be the last time he saw the kindly old man.

After turning a few corners, riding down a couple of streets, and scaring a couple of camels, he dismounted in front of a plain-looking house with a green door and wild grasses around the threshold.

Before he even raised his hand to knock on the door, a deep voice came from the inside, "The door is open, stranger. Do come in."

Tom blinked. The person inside had not spoken Arabic, but perfect English. He slowly pushed the door open and stepped in.

The room was small and square, with walls of red roughcast and elaborate Arabic window frames, and he walked in on a floor of hard-packed earth, with a big carpet in the middle. In the centre of the room was a low wooden table with a handsome oriental kettle. And behind it, in a wooden armchair that did not look so comfortable, sat a very strange old man drinking tea in a small glass.

Something special emanated from him, from his sharp features and keen slanted eyes, and despite the sober outfit he was wearing. This old man sat on his wooden chair like a king on his throne, with the same natural majesty and steadiness. As if he had been doing that for all his life. And judging from his looks, 'all his life' must be a very long time.

Impressed in spite of himself, Tom walked to the old man and bowed deeply. "Peace be on you, Sheikh."

Sheikh Razek al-Simbel gave a polite nod, and put his glass on the table. "And peace be on you as well, Effendi. What do I owe this visit to?"

His deep, low voice sounded like a bell of bronze. Tom realised he had no trouble at all believing that this man was the possessor of the knowledge of Ancient Egypt. He certainly looked – and sounded – the part.

"Well," he began, feeling the beginning of a sudden hesitation, "my name is Thomas Ferguson, and I came here to ask for help."

"If your purpose is honest, and your intentions pure, then help you shall find here."

"But … It is not the help of Sheikh al-Simbel I have come to ask."

The Sheikh raised a single long white eyebrow.

"I came here looking for help from the Keeper of the Dead, He who makes the two worlds join."

There was a long silence, during which Tom found himself under the close scrutiny of a pair of piercing black eyes, almost reduced to slits as Razek al-Simbel took his time to assess him. The result seemed to be in the Englishman's favour, because when the slanted eyes went back to their usual shape, the Sheikh's face had lost some of its severity.

"So, Thomas Ferguson," he said quietly, his eyes not leaving Tom's face. "What brings you into my humble home?"

"It's a long story," Tom replied, feeling a bit uneasy about telling this imposing character everything about the mess going on.

"Then take your time to tell it. And please, sit down."

_Right.__ He's got an answer for everything, has he?_ Tom took the offered chair with thanks, and scratched awkwardly the back of his neck, thinking about where to begin.

"Thank you. All right … Well, eight years ago I became a member of a British governmental organisation called the Chamber of Horus, which searches Egypt for potentially dangerous artefacts in order to make them safe – that's what I was told at the time. Now, two years ago, a very important artefact was retrieved from the lost Oasis of Ahm Shere by a family of Egyptologists, Rick and Dr Evelyn O'Connell. However, they did not keep the Diamond of Ahm Shere, but sold it to the Cairo Museum of Antiquities.

"It just so happened – although I was unaware of it at the time – that the one who made the transaction with the curator, Dr Hakim, about the Diamond, was an old friend of mine, Jonathan Carnahan, Dr O'Connell's brother.

"A few months ago, in the wake of dark events in Europe and Northern Africa, the Chamber decided that the Diamond of Ahm Shere was no longer safe in Egypt, and had to be removed to England where it could be watched more closely. So, as I understand it, Evelyn and Rick O'Connell were asked by the Government to go to Egypt, negotiate with the curator, and bring the Diamond back to England."

Tom hesitated a bit at first, but felt more and more self-assured as he talked and talked, choosing his words carefully and always looking at the Sheikh in the eye. Razek al-Simbel listened with his eyes half-closed, his long, lean fingers crossed in front of him; however, when Tom stopped to regain breath and think about what to say next, he opened his eyes and politely invited him to carry on.

"I was one in a team of agents sent here a week ago with my superior, Charles Hamilton, to see to it that the Diamond was in good hands and that nothing would happen. However, what I wasn't aware of at the time, was that Hamilton had very special projects of his own concerning both the Diamond and Ahm Shere, which I just recently learned had nothing to do with given orders.

"Six days ago – that is last Tuesday – I ran into Jonathan Carnahan in Cairo. That was a complete surprise, because I didn't know he had followed his sister to Egypt, and a welcome one, because I was glad to see him again after all this time. The problem is that Hamilton heard of this chance encounter on the very same day and took the opportunity to act. He gave me orders to take advantage of my 'good situation' with Jon and the O'Connells in order to steal the Diamond of Ahm Shere. I refused, of course. Then he gave me the proof that my wife was being held captive in a secret place, and that if I still refused to obey orders, I'd never see her alive and well again."

Tom stopped again, to try and swallow the lump in his throat. Al-Simbel opened his eyes and gazed at him intently, but did not say anything.

"What was I to do after that? The day after, we – I mean Jon, his sister Evelyn and I – were going to see the Diamond at the Museum. Somebody created a diversion that led Drs Hakim and O'Connell elsewhere, and in the meanwhile, agents broke in the Diamond's room me and Jon were 'guarding', knocked both of us out cold and left with the Diamond. I was rather relieved to think this was the end.

"Two days after that, though, Hamilton sent agents to Cairo, and kidnapped Jon and Rick O'Connell. My cover was blown as I helped in the taking." Tom felt his voice quiver a little bit and waited a short while before continuing, "They were held first in the basement of the British Consulate, then in a house in Giza. It was there that I tried to talk to them, and Hamilton turned up at that moment and explained his plans to the three of us."

_Okay, the moment of truth._ "Maybe you know some things about Germany and its Chancellor, Adolf Hitler. Hamilton is persuaded that Hitler's going to cause some sort of huge human catastrophe someday, and he plans to go to Ahm Shere, use the Diamond to open the pyramid, and claim the Army of Anubis for his own so that he might wipe out the threat Germany's leader stands for, in his opinion, by simply wiping out Germany."

Another silence settled – a different one, though, now that Tom had finished his story. He just sat cross-legged on the elaborate carpet, feeling out-of-place and staring wordlessly at his still-untouched glass of mint tea that had stopped steaming a while ago. Sheikh al-Simbel stared at him for another couple of seconds, then said slowly, "Why have you come to see me? What sort of help have you come to ask for?"

_Well, that was it, wasn't it?_ Tom braced himself and looked up. "Beside the fact that what Hamilton plans to do _has_ to be stopped, I can't help thinking that he's got it all wrong. I mean, what are the chances that the Army of Anubis will answer a mortal? He says he's relying on the legend, but what _does_ the legend say exactly?"

Sheikh al-Simbel actually gave a small smile. Or at least, one corner of his thin mouth crept up slightly. The result might have been pretty scary if his slanted eyes hadn't appeared to be genuinely smiling.

"Whom do you wish to ask – the Keeper of the Dead, or the Dead themselves?"

"Anyone who can give me the truth about the Army of Anubis," Tom answered eagerly. The Sheikh looked appraisingly at him for two more seconds, then rose from his chair, picked an unlit torch from the wall, and walked to a door in the back of the room.

"Come."

Tom followed him out of the room into another, with little light and much darker walls. There was a trapdoor in the middle of the room, and before the Sheikh opened it, he turned to the Englishman and pinned him with a very serious stare, "From now on, whatever you hear, whatever you see, keep still and silent. One move, one sound – and you are dead."

Tom gulped with some difficulty, but nodded, and followed Sheikh al-Simbel through the trapdoor.

The two men walked down a long flight of stairs, and Tom couldn't help but notice that the air around him was getting colder and colder. Maybe it was only a trick of his imagination, but as they went down a narrow corridor – the only source of light being the torch al-Simbel had lit up before they got down the stairs – Tom found himself almost shivering, and it made him wonder exactly how far they were below the surface. To be _that_ cold in one of the hottest parts in the world, it had to be pretty far.

They finally came to another door, which the Sheikh opened slowly. The room inside was rather small, with a very high ceiling and stonewalls; near the opposite wall was a small table covered entirely with a long tablecloth that could have been blue or dark red – Tom couldn't really tell because of the lack of light. There was a silver censer in front of the table, containing an odd mix of strange small pellets and bits of what looked like coal. The whole thing smelt to high heaven of burnt wood and myrrh.

Razek a-Simbel beckoned him to stay near the closed door, and brought a thin long finger to his lips. He didn't need to. The atmosphere felt so strange to Tom that there was something in his throat that forbade him to let out any sound.

The Sheikh turned his back on the Englishman to face the censer, the table, and the wall behind it, and began chanting in a language Tom didn't recognise, his deep, low voice sounding even deeper and lower. Tom felt the air around him change – not only was it turning even colder, if such a thing was possible, but it also seemed to be growing scarce, or heavier. As if the air was sucked in from the room to go revolving around al-Simbel instead, whose black robes were billowing in a wind Tom couldn't feel.

Both terrorised and excited, he watched on, mesmerised, as a blurry figure began to appear as though sketched out on the wall, above the table, as if floating in the air. It was tall, imposing even, and as the outlines grew more definite Tom could make out a dark head like a jackal's, and a body wearing the white linen robe of Ancient Egyptian priests.

The jackal-headed god Anubis was standing before them.

Tom managed to stop his jaw from unclenching with a violent effort of will, but it was close. He was too terrified by the Sheikh's words to him to attempt anything that might resemble making a 'move' or a 'sound'. He even tried not to shiver too much and kept his back against the wall, vainly searching for warmth.

An unearthly voice poured down into the room, accompanied with another wave of cold. Tom couldn't make out one word of it – but then, at that point, he wouldn't have understood a thing even if it had been speaking plain old English. Tears were stinging his eyes, and he couldn't feel the fingers he'd stuck into his sleeves to keep warm.

_For God's sake, make it _stop _…_

Unlike him, the Sheikh didn't seem to mind the cold; in fact, Tom wondered whether he felt it at all. He was talking to the tall, somewhat blurry figure floating above the table, otherwise standing completely still, not heeding the small whirlwind around him either.

Then Tom saw him give a deep bow, and the form on the wall vanished. So did the wind, and, he noticed, air seemed to settle back into the room just as the paralysing cold departed, leaving a much more reasonable temperature. He relaxed a little bit, his heart pounding in his chest, and looked around him, bemused. Al-Simbel walked toward him, and briefly lay a hand on his shoulder before opening the door and going through it. It felt to Tom as if some sort of spell had been broken, and he could move again. But his throat still felt too tight to talk.

His legs wobbling, and his mind buzzing with questions he couldn't even list, he followed the Sheikh back into the corridor, then up the stairs, and into the Sheikh's living room. The difference in temperatures was shocking.

"Here," said al-Simbel, handing him a cup of something, "sit down, and drink this. You look like you are in need of both."

So he did look just as he felt. Great. Tom accepted the cup and held it in a shaky hand, careful not to spill it over the carpet as he sit down. When he dipped his lips in the liquid, he found it to be a strongly-flavoured _mazbout_. He closed his eyes as he drank the excellent Egyptian coffee.

"Do not think that I call upon the gods every day, but now time is of the essence. For it seems that you were right, Thomas Ferguson," Razek al-Simbel said as the Englishman put his cup on the table. "There is indeed a mortal willing to claim the Army of Anubis for his own. According to what I've learned, he will attempt it in three days, at the coming New Year, which will herald the Year of the Jackal."

Tom nodded. "That's what Hamilton said."

Al-Simbel's black eyes narrowed at him, suddenly keener. "Does he know that this is not the entire truth?"

Tom's head snapped up. "I don't know. What _is_ the entire truth?"

"A mortal cannot summon Anubis' Army and use it for his own purposes," the Sheikh said grimly. "If a mortal attempts to raise it, the Army will be unleashed in this world, with no master, and no purpose but to kill and destroy."

Tom gulped. So that's how you felt when you heard the end of the world was a few days ahead. He couldn't help but make a mental note to ask Jon how _he_ had felt, the two times – if he had felt so scared and so cold so quickly.

His bet was on 'yes'.

"But there is another thing you must know. Ahm Shere was created after a pact a mortal made with Anubis. As we speak, Anubis is claiming Ahm Shere. On the next new moon, it shall be forever destroyed."

_Blimey_. "Wait," Tom stammered, "wait, that – that means –"

"Yes. The New Year coincides with the next new moon."

Tom's jaw went slack and something icy and sharp crossed his stomach.

_They're going to be in that bloody pyramid at the exact moment it's destroyed. Of all the luck …_

There was a little voice inside of him that reminded him Hamilton would probably not have the time to carry out his projects thanks to this particular fault in his plans, and that this was a very good thing. But the major part of his mind was screaming that he ought to do something – everyone who would be in the pyramid at that moment would be killed. Fellow agents he considered as friends. O'Connell. Jon.

He must have paled a good deal, because Sheikh al-Simbel was looking at him with something that might resemble concern in his slanted eyes.

"Are you feeling well?"

Tom looked around to avoid his eyes, feeling sick and cold despite the heat. "Y–yes, yes, thanks," he finally stammered absently. Then he took a deep breath and looked up at the Sheikh. "No," he said, more firmly. "No, I'm not."

Anger flared up inside him, and he just stopped thinking about what to say next. "Hamilton's a madman who doesn't care about killing thousands of people, but the people he's going to take underground with him in the Pyramid don't deserve to die!" _Oh, hell._ "I've friends among 'em! And I don't care if Jon thinks I'm just a bloody traitor – I'm not lettin' him die in there either, dammit!"

Tom had forgotten that he was speaking to what was probably the most important man in Egypt, that he was sitting on his carpet and drinking his coffee, and that he had just witnessed this particular man having a nice little tête-à-tête with a god from Ancient Egypt. He hadn't even realised he was shouting. And when he did realise that, he felt not a little afraid.

But Razek al-Simbel didn't seem offended. Not to the point of actually doing something that might threaten Tom, anyway. In fact, if anything, he looked a little bit amused by the sudden resurfacing of Tom's accent.

The Englishman took a second or two to calm himself down a bit, then muttered, "Sorry. Guess I got carried away."

"It certainly sounded so," al-Simbel said, almost pleasantly. "Now, what are you intending to do?"

What did he intend to do? Good question. "I'll – I'll, ah …"

_Oh, be honest with yourself, for once_. "Sheikh, there's nothing I can really do now. There is a roll call at seven o'clock, and if I'm not there by then, I'll be grounded and truly incapable of doing anything this time."

The Sheikh nodded gravely, and Tom's heart plummeted in his stomach. There had to be something that could be done to set things right, there just _had_ to –

His heart suddenly skipped a beat. There _was_ something. "The Medjai!"

"What of them?" Sheikh al-Simbel asked politely, with something in his slight smile that would have made Tom think, if he had noticed it.

"The Medjai were there last time the Army of Anubis arose – and their Commander's friends with the O'Connells – somebody's got to get them!" He searched his pockets frantically and eventually found a crumpled piece of paper and a pen, on which he scribbled hastily the O'Connells' address in Cairo.

"If someone could go there – and ask for Dr Evelyn O'Connell, to tell her that her husband and her brother are fine –" there he hesitated a bit "– for the moment. You'll recognise her easily, she's a beautiful woman, with black hair and bright eyes, and she's very intelligent. Tell her also to go to the Medjai, because if somebody can set things right, it's them."

According to what he knew of the secretive desert people, that is.

Tom rose and took a deep bow, "I'm sorry, but I've got to go now if I don't want to look suspicious."

"I understand, Mr Ferguson," the Sheikh said in that deep voice of his. "Dr O'Connell will be informed, and the Medjai alerted."

"Thanks a lot, Sheikh. Thank you."

On those words he meant as a parting, Tom headed for the door. However, he stopped there when Razek al-Simbel's voice rose again behind him.

"You seem to treasure friendship, Mr Ferguson. That is a noble thing. If your friend values friendship like you do, you do not have to worry."

Tom turned his head to look at the stately old man sitting in his wooden armchair, the exact replica of the image he'd seen when he first entered the room. He nodded and forced a smile.

"Thanks."

Once outside, as he picked up his bicycle and proceeded to pedal like mad to get to Giza in time, he wondered about the Sheikh's last phrase. He didn't know why on Earth the old man had said that – surely it was not only to make him feel better, was it? Why would he bother?

Well, maybe Tom was completely wrong. Or there had been some sort of riddle, of hidden message behind the phrase. He didn't know. How would he know, after seeing a god from the other world of Ancient Egypt come back in front of him? That for sure would unsettle anyone!

Once thing was certain, though. Whatever the Sheikh might say, it wouldn't be this easy to make it up with Jon. He could be pig-headed about that sort of thing. When somebody messed up with him one way or another, he often forgot, but never forgave. The exact contrary of Tom, who sometimes forgave, but never forgot.

Tom cringed.

No, it definitely wouldn't be that easy.

* * *

Interestingly enough, Abbas' character just popped out of my head even as I was writing him – he seemed to sneak in the story and be comfortable. I like him; I don't know if he will be back, but I do :o) 

I know 'Shout-outs! Yay!' is a bit unoriginal, but I really feel like 'Yaay!' Because of the reviews. Thanks for making my day, folks! :o)

**_Adele:_** You're right, making people suffer does help build up the tension of the story. Or maybe it's the opposite; anyway, I'm glad you still seem hooked up, and I hope that this chapter was quick enough :o) Thanks!

**_EggSalad_** My friend, I'll never sing your praise loud enough. Writing is very much an egoistic process, and before Internet was used by so many people, I guess fanfiction writers kept most of their stuff to themselves. Now that we have means to communicate so fast to people so far from us, and with the whole system of reviews, writers that post their stories don't only write for their own personal pleasure, but also for the pleasure of readers… and, whatever they may say, for the sheer joy of receiving feedback. I'm no exception, and reviews such as yours just make my day for quite a while; besides, if I ever wonder whether I'm using the free time I have in front of me or not, I think of the kind of review I'll get from you and I just stop wondering. There you go :o)

As for the research… well, it's going to be my job in a few years – I want to be a school librarian, a "documentaliste" we say, so looking for/gathering pieces of information is a piece of cake when it's a subject I love! Besides, I love history, especially 19th/20th century history. (And I love writing this story, even though there are some times when I feel very, very frustrated that I can't get this or that paragraph _right_. You know?) Well, I don't know if "love" is the right word; but I've always had a great interest in WW2 and what led to it.Howhuman beings couldprove so inhumanalways wonder.Interestingly enough, while the 'international Jew conspiracy' explanation was often used by Hitler in the 30s to justify horrors such as the pogroms, the laws and whatever public knowledge there was about the camps, there was no other 'justification' than the idea of 'purifying the Aryan race' to the killing of thousands of homosexuals, stateless people, handicapped people, mental defective… Not to mention the German opponents of the regime, and afterwards, the opponents from various occupied countries. Maybe the fact that I'm French – one of the countries occupied by the Nazis – has something to do with this interest, I don't know. I guess Europe and North America have very different relationships with WW2… Hmm… /rant :o) Sorry! Anyway, I really hope I won't disappoint you.

**_Eris_** Thanks :o) The idea of Hitler wanting to use Ahm Shere was not something I wanted to write, but I did want to allude to it. I still don't know if it's a legend, but Hitler did seem to take great interest in the occult – see _Raiders of the Lost Ark_, _The Last Crusade_ or even some _Alias_ episodes with the Rambaldi plotline. It just seemed logic that, at this point of history, only two years before the invasion of Poland and the declaration of war, a device like Ahm Shere would be appropriate. Then again, the Nazi ideal was to rule a pure world, not a dead one. Anyway, you're completely right – nothing stops a really determined psychopath. But I wanted to make Hamilton not your traditional psychopath with world domination – he genuinely wants to save the world. Well, hell is paved with good intentions, they say :s

**_Wrenn_** (or should it be **_TTFN_**?): Thanks for the nice words! I never thought to be any good at suspense :o) Yes, Jon has been doing some growing-up, but not too much, I assure you! ;)

**_Louise:_** Well, join the club ;o) A lot of my friends can back that up – I'm a wee bit head over heels (?) for John Hannah, and, envy me, mortal girls! my boyfriend doesn't mind :D I'm not as bad as pals of mine, though; one of my friends' got a (serious!) thing for Brad Pitt, and it's lasted for ten years now. Anyway, so I'm a Jonathan fan, ready to stand up to him with teeth and nails bared if someone says something bad about him – or just not grounded with facts :D

Well, I'm sending the 11th chapter, and embarking on writing the 13th. It's going to be a long ride, but I guess we're reached the… second third of the story :o)

Much of love,

Bel :o)


	11. Going Mobile

**Author's Notes :** There you go, another chapter, when I've just begun writing the 13th. The title comes yet again from a Who song (can you tell I like them;o) from the album _Who's Next_, and written by the bassist, John Entwistle for the trivia. I did do research on an Egyptian calendar that would name years after hallowed or symbolical beasts such as the Chinese would, but while I found 4 sorts of calendar (based on the seasons, the moon, the sun, or the stars) I had to make that up – as, I guess, Steve Sommers did when he came up with the "year of the scorpion". Anyway, on to the story :o)

_Disclaimer: Well, we've reached the 11th chapter now, you must now that I didn't create the characters of the extended O'Connell/Carnahan family, nor Ardeth Bay, nor the situations referred to here and told in full length in _The Mummy_ and _The Mummy Returns_. But if that's what it takes to avoid being sued… :o)_

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 11: Going _****_Mobile_**

Evelyn O'Connell was tired.

Not that this particular fact in itself was surprising: she was usually the first to admit that she was not much of a morning person. She could burn the midnight oil for what Rick qualified as an unreasonably long time, but when it came down to getting up in the morning... Well, sometimes it needed all of Rick's persuasion to get her eyes to open.

Now, having slept less than ten hours after a sleepless night would make anyone tired. And not being a morning person had very little to do with that, especially since the old clock in the entrance corridor had just struck seven o'clock in the evening.

However, strain had never been something that could dampen Evy's determination. And Sheikh al-Simbel didn't seem to notice that she blinked a bit more than was usual as he told her of his interview with Tom Ferguson.

Evelyn couldn't say she wasn't a little bit disappointed at first. For one brief, shining moment, she had thought she would find Ferguson in Nazlet El Samman and drag him back to the Cairo house by the ear to make him spill the beans about where Rick and Jonathan had been taken. Then, as Rick would have said, they would have been onto something constructive.

But things were never that easy, she thought as she listened to the Sheikh's tale.

She listened intently as he told her about the plans of that Hamilton fellow, and felt something twist her stomach at the rectification al-Simbel brought about the Army of Anubis and what they would do if unleashed on the world. However, it was maybe a sign that she was getting used to apocalypses that Evelyn quickly got over her initial shock and all but gasped when the old man told her ever so casually that he had asked Anubis for information about his army. Of course, as a librarian, she had heard and read about High Priests calling upon gods in time of dire necessity, but the Bembridge scholars would dismiss such hearsay as fairy tales, not factual, archival reality. Then again, she thought, feeling a small smile making its way on her lips, the Bembridge scholars were wrong about a lot of things.

"What did Anubis say?" she asked, the familiar feeling of mingled excitement and anticipation that appeared each time she was confronted with something unknown or unheard of awakening in her chest.

Al-Simbel marked a small pause, as if hesitating – as if he almost did not think she would take what he had said seriously.

"The great god Anubis told me that Ahm Shere would not see the next year. He is claiming her, and to him she must go."

Evy's mind began to race. She barely noticed Alex and Ardeth breaking off their conversation and looking at her.

"Dr Hakim said that the pyramid is probably still buried under the sand... That means it will be utterly destroyed before the next New Year's Day, doesn't it? Well, this means we've still –"

She felt her jaw unhinge in spite of herself, the effect of a certain thought that had just popped into her mind.

The Egyptian calendar didn't have anything to do with the Julian calendar. And the next New Year was to begin in –

Evy felt colour drain from her cheeks.

"Oh my God...we've only got four days to stop them."

"Three, Mum," came her son's voice, a little bit more high-pitched than usual. Alex looked suddenly paler under his blond fringe, as if he just had had the same idea as she had.

Razek al-Simbel gave a slight bow, and Evy turned back to him.

"Now you know everything I know. I hope you all succeed in your tasks, whatever those might be. Farewell."

A second later he was gone. Alex's none too steady voice broke the puzzled silence that had settled after the Sheikh's parting words, "Whoa. What the hell did _that_ mean?"

Evelyn almost rolled her eyes at her son's language, but for once said nothing, because Ardeth stepped in. "That we've got little time," he said quickly but politely. "Evelyn, I'm going back to the Medjai. There is a lot to be done."

"What are you going to do?" she asked, thinking hard and fast about what _she_ could do.

"Call the tribes, dispatch spies, find out where they are and when they intend to go to Ahm Shere, if they are not already gone – we might have to attack them in the desert as a last resort. And if this doesn't scare them into changing their mind ..."

Evy had already seen the Medjai attack an archaeological party in order to protect Hamunaptra, the Lost City hiding a great treasure – and a great danger. And she knew by experience that being on the wrong side of rifles and scimitars artfully and lethally wielded by steady hands was scary, to say the least.

But another thing she knew by experience was that even the Medjai were not all-powerful, and that it only took one strong-minded person – _all right, stubborn as a mule, too_ – to reduce three thousand years' work to nothing. If she, at the time, had managed to wake up Imhotep after two strong-arm warnings from the strange desert men in black, what could possibly stop Ferguson's boss from going to Ahm Shere and claiming Anubis' Army for his own?

Beside death, that is.

She kept her thoughts to herself and gave a nod to Ardeth as he headed for the door.

"Hey, what about us?" exclaimed Alex, making her jump slightly. "What do _we_ do now?"

Ardeth turned his black-haired head, and looked at mother and son in turn, "The wisest thing would be for you to stay here. However, as I know this won't be the case –" and there Evelyn could have sworn she saw a twinkle in his eye despite his stern face, "– I suggest you find a safe means of transportation. If need be that we have to leave quickly, of course. In this case I'll meet you at the south door of Fort Brydon tomorrow morning at eight."

This time, Evy felt a fully-fledged grin stretch her lips.

It just so happened that she knew exactly the man for the job.

* * *

Down in the cell that looked rather like a cellar, the heat had abated to a more reasonable temperature. It was almost cool in the room; one could guess that the night must have fallen not long ago. Soon, it would get colder – but nothing close to the biting cold of the desert nights. In the middle of the Sahara, the night could chill anyone's bones through more efficiently than a European winter's breeze. 

The small yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling was blinking unsteadily, and the bleak light it managed to cast in the room blinked in rhythm. Jonathan had been trying for quite a while to find a regular pattern to this rhythm, a sense of sorts, but he wasn't getting any result. Not that he was really expecting any, for that matter.

No, staring at this bulb was rather a more or less efficient way not to think about Tom and Hamilton and Anubis' Army and the Scorpion King and lots of things. Staring at this bulb made him avoid thinking at all. Unfortunately, thoughts drifted in and out, and Jonathan did not see any other way to avoid them.

This Hamilton was mad.

No, scratch that.

This Hamilton was a bloody raving _maniac_!

Granted, Jonathan had never seen the Warriors of Anubis in action … But he had had plenty of unwanted details from Ardeth who always did seem to enjoy taking the mickey out of him a little too much for Jonathan's liking. Before and after the big battle. If these kinds of stories had reached him when he was a small kid, there was no doubt that it would have often kept him awake all night.

However, Ardeth wasn't the one who had truly made Jonathan's skin crawl by his description of the jackal Warriors. The Englishman would always keep in mind the aftermath of the battle over Ahm Shere, after Izzy 'dropped' them for a while at the Medjai camp – they wanted to at least say goodbye properly to Ardeth, make sure he was all right as well, that sort of thing.

The Medjai Commander wasn't quite what one could call 'all right'. Despite a few scratches he was physically intact, but he had lost more than a quarter of his men on the battlefield. His face was sombre as he described the fight in a few tense words. Evy's eyes were sad, and both Rick and Alex were uncharacteristically quiet. For his part, Jonathan was too busy trying to swallow the lump in his throat to speak.

And then, as he lingered a few steps behind the small group, he heard something that quite literally made his hair stand on end. A scream. A scream so gripping, so terrified, so terrifying in itself that his first impulse was to start running madly and not look back. However, he did not run, but spun on his heels toward the source of the scream.

_Good Lord …_

It was a kid. A boy of twenty, more likely nineteen, his once tanned skin almost grey with terror and glistening with sweat, his dark eyes wild and bulging. Everything about him spoke of something so horrifying it was unspeakable; from his eyes, in particular, came such a terror that Jonathan's stomach did a double somersault. He could not detach his stare from those eyes.

The boy had a large gash on his left side, and the women who tended to him came and went around him, blind and deaf to everything that went on outside of the tent. And for a second, Jonathan was also blind and deaf to everything that wasn't that kid's eyes.

This was maybe why he jumped out of his skin when somebody touched his arm, as if sending a bolt of electricity through him. That somebody was Evy, and she was looking at him strangely; he pointed a somewhat shaky finger at the tent and the boy on the cot. She opened her mouth and her eyes widened slightly.

"Holy sh – this kid looks like he saw the devil himself!" Rick's low voice sounded none too steady either.

"He's not the only one," said Ardeth's dark voice from behind them. "Older Medjai also seem to have this sort of terror in their eyes when the Warriors of Anubis come into their minds. Those Warriors are a wild, dark sort; they do not know the meaning of mercy, and they are ruthless and cruel to no end."

And he had taken the four of them along elsewhere, shifting subjects rather abruptly, which wasn't like him at all. But the expression in this anonymous boy's eyes had long stuck in Jonathan's mind, and from what he had understood afterwards, he wasn't the only one.

The Warriors of Anubis were the sort to fill some of the bravest people he knew with unspeakable terror.

And those were the kind of monsters that Hamilton planned to send on thousands of people!

Bloody lunatic.

Jonathan shivered, feeling the cold of the night gradually creeping over him. Rick was already sleeping, and it seemed that he had been for some time, if the moment he had put his head on the ground counted as falling asleep. The American, faithful to his old reflexes born of habits, had managed to wrap himself somehow in his brown jacket, and he looked pretty much comfortable this way. He even sounded comfortable, considering the quiet but deep and steady snoring that came from his corner of the room.

The bulb went out.

Without any warning, the world – or rather, the cell – went pitch black.

For a long moment, Jonathan kept his eyes wide open in the complete darkness, hoping the small light would come back, almost waiting for it – he had grown so used to this yellowish excuse for a light that its abrupt disappearance made it look like a bright, shining star. But the room remained dark, and although Jonathan still stared around with eyes wide open, he couldn't even see the tip of his nose.

Only Rick's snores remained as a signal to his position. As in, '_Don't you step this way, I'm sleeping here_.' And after much deliberation with himself, Jonathan had to admit that it was sort of reassuring to know that he wasn't the only form of life in this room. And it was a hell of an acknowledgement, because in any other circumstances he would already have taken a shoe off and thrown it across the room.

All right, maybe only thought about doing so – Rick could be in a really rotten mood if somebody woke him up the wrong way. And he really did _not_ want to be on the wrong side of an O'Connell glare, even in this utter darkness.

The fact remained nonetheless that sleep continued to evade Jonathan, who was gradually feeling more and more cold and bored. And the image of the kid scared to death still hung in front of his eyes, no matter whether they were closed or open, which didn't make any difference anyway.

There was something that was both scary and strange with staring at a world of black. Scary, because even for the most rational person on Earth, there still will be a little voice in the back of the mind whispering that it's going to remain this way for ever, that you won't see ever again, even when light does come back. Strange, because the atmosphere changed radically. The movements somehow felt less real without the confirmation of sight. Even noises seemed to come muffled, the only actual sound being Rick's steady snoring at the other side of the room, a few feet away.

Said snoring was actually growing less steady, as Jonathan noticed. As it sounded, Rick was grunting and shifting in his sleep, and the Englishman was almost tempted to shake him awake or something. But the last thing Jonathan wanted was to trip over something in the dark and wake him in a far more sudden way. The consequences could be disastrous, as he observed thanks to a particular event that happened a few years ago.

It had been only a cat, and Rick had been only half-asleep, but the animal had had the very bad idea of leaping lightly on him to sniff his face. The American had sent the cat flying across the room before even realising there had been no immediate danger. Jonathan still recalled Evy's aghast expression, followed by an incredulous glare – oh yes, she was quite good at this one – that had forced his own laughter back down his throat.

_Oh, of course, yes. I see_. That change in Rick's sleep must have something to do with Evy. Or Alex, for that matter. Rick had seemed to forget how to sleep soundly when the lad had been taken two years ago, and remember only after Alex was back. As for Evy … Well, after what happened at that place, suffice it to say that it had taken some time for the three other members of the family to be thoroughly convinced that she was very much alive, quite well, and not going anywhere. As far as Jonathan was concerned, it was a bit difficult to get it into his head that nobody was going to take his baby sister away after all. At least in the first four or five months following Ahm Shere.

Rick muttered something in his sleep, and Jonathan turned his eyes to where the sound seemed to be going from.

"Speak up, old boy – can't quite hear you."

Whether Rick had heard him or not, Jonathan had no idea, but something in the mumbling – which still managed to retain that particular American drawl – became clearer.

"Mmhm … vvv … vy … Evy …"

Right on target. Jonathan winced sympathetically and turned back to where he imagined the door would be. If you didn't count the previous night, this was the first time in years that the two lovebirds didn't sleep at least under the same roof. And since eleven years made for enough time to grow used to one's baby sister getting married and everything that went with it, Jonathan thought he could afford to feel sorry for his brother-in-law. At least to be a tad sympathetic.

Maybe it was because he was a little lost in his silent musings – or also because he simply wasn't paying attention – that he missed the tiny, but slowly growing ray of light that crept from under the door, meaning that somebody was walking down the flight of stairs holding a light. But even Jonathan couldn't fail to notice the sound of footfalls that seemed to be coming closer and closer down the steps, then the corridor, to their cellar. He scrambled to his feet and tried to locate his sleeping brother-in-law in the darkness, which wasn't such an easy task as he'd thought first.

"Rick? Come on, old chap, wake up, we've got company … I think. Rick, where the hell – _oof_"

Of course, he had tripped over the sleeping American and fallen heavily on what he thought was his stomach. The next second, a hand that felt as though it had been clad in iron grasped his throat, crushing his windpipe quite efficiently.

"D–don't be r–r–ridiculous, Rick, it's me!" Jonathan managed to choke out. The hand released its grip immediately.

"Oh … sorry about that. Old reflexes, you know."

Jonathan could almost hear him smirk in the dark room.

"Don't mention it," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

"You know," he heard Rick say after a couple of seconds, "in this kind of situation, it's better not to try to use long words. Short ones are easier to get out, see."

This time, he was absolutely sure that Rick was grinning. Which was confirmed when the door opened, letting in somebody holding a paraffin lamp, although the sudden light seemed to intense that it was impossible to say how many they were behind it.

"Gentlemen," came the unmistakable slimy voice, "please forgive us for disturbing your sleep, but it's a long way to where we are going and we must leave now. If you would follow us."

Now that his eyes slowly adjusted to the light, Jonathan could recognise the creepy-looking bloke who had led the taking in Cairo. And, considering the way Rick's face clouded dangerously, he was not the only one.

Outside, despite the lack of moonlight – although a very thin quarter was still to be seen – they could see everything surrounding them as if it were daylight. The stark white walls of the little houses of Giza seemed to be pale blue under the starlight, and the shadows were longer and deeper. It was a little bit eerie.

They were being led to the same truck that had brought them there, and Jonathan sighed wistfully, wishing he had got as much sleep as Rick had these past few hours. Whatever sleep he was going to get in there couldn't be very deep.

To his surprise, there were two old mattresses in the back of the truck. They were so old that springs were sticking out in places, and several buttons were missing.

"That's for us?" Rick was eyeing the mattresses in a way that was both wary and quizzical. "Neat, as my son would say. Is that the best you've got?"

"Certainly not, Mr O'Connell," said the creep from Cairo – didn't Hamilton call him 'Mr Bane' or something? – with a smirk. "But it's the best _you've_ got. We're keeping the very best for our superior."

"Lucky bastard."

Fortunately, maybe, for Rick, only Jonathan heard that, and he agreed heartily. Silently, of course.

He looked for Tom among the different faces that all looked the same under this bluish light, but didn't find him. This was a little bit disappointing; he had almost wished to see his former friend before going to Ahm Shere, to see whether he was in on Hamilton's plan or not, and what he thought about it all. But then, he reflected a little bitterly, if the man was capable of everything he had done so far without asking questions, only to follow orders mindlessly, then there was nothing to say.

Of course, seeing him lose so much colour at Hamilton's exposition had made Jonathan keep for a moment the feeble hope that he would do – or try to do – something to stop that. Tommy was always the one who would stick up for lost cases, try to right the wrongs, that sort of thing. He had sort of been Jonathan's conscience for a while, and there had been many times when Jonathan had pulled Tom back in time to save him from doing something downright stupid. Obviously, Tommy often got furious on occasions like these, calling Jonathan an egoistic git, but in the end he still reluctantly admitted having been proved wrong. And this worked in both cases.

So it was a little bit odd to picture Tom Ferguson executing orders without thinking. But then, everyone and everything seemed to be constantly changing, and Tom wasn't an exception to the rule …

Jonathan hadn't realised he was actually this tired until he put his head on the beaten-up mattress and fell abruptly asleep.

* * *

Evelyn was awake by the crack of dawn. 

As light made its way inside the house, she packed a few clothes, some food, and gathered a small number of Rick's guns – she was certain, despite her strong dislike for such weapons, that they would come in handy at some point. She also took her own favourite weapon, a slender scimitar, light but strong, that Ardeth had given her for practice after seeing her fighting against Lock-Nah's men. Adding in typical Ardeth fashion that, although she did fight very well, she still needed more self-confidence and grace. Evy couldn't help but feel a little upset at that. But she had to admit that Nefertiri's skills _could_ be a little bit rusty after three thousand years.

Besides, Ardeth was the last person she thought who would say something that did not have truth in it. Ardeth never lied. He could hide the truth sometimes, but she had never seen him tell a downright lie.

When everything was ready, she went to Alex's room to wake him. After a solid breakfast – all the more solid given that it would probably be their last real breakfast for days – they set off in Jonathan's car to what was gradually becoming the first real airport of Cairo.

Evelyn couldn't help a sigh of relief when she saw the 'Magic Carpet Airways' sign. Only, this time, it wasn't hasty words painted on an old, dusty bit of wood; it was shiny brass letters planted on a neat, dark bit of wood. And it was hanging on the same big wooden doors.

"Looks like he's changed things around a bit, hasn't he?" said Alex beside her with a whistle, looking at the great big doors.

"Let's hope he's still here," Evy muttered, a bit worried.

As if on cue, one of the doors opened, and a little black man stumbled out, holding a few rolled-up maps and scratching the back of his head, making the flying hat he wore tip dangerously over his eyes.

Evelyn and her son exchanged glances.

"He's still here."

"Most definitely."

She gave her sweetest smile and gave a small wave, "Why, hello, Mr. Buttons!"

Izzy's reaction was comic, to say the least. He froze on the spot, and stood there with his mouth hanging open, fish-like, staring at mother and son with owlishly wide eyes. Utter terror was in them.

"Oh, no … no … no, not you lot again!"

"Come now, Izzy, I haven't said anything."

He frowned.

"Please, ma'am, tell me this is just payin' a friendly visit to a friend who's saved your butts last time and nothin' more."

Evelyn gave the most reassuring smile she could. "Oh yes, I was passing by with my son and we decided to pay you a friendly visit."

"Uh," said Izzy, one eyebrow deeply frowned and the other raised, "with all those bags?"

"Well, we also happen to be in need of a swift means of transportation."

Izzy's face lightened. The four silver teeth gleamed in his grin. "I can take you anywhere, even down south to Memphis or the Valley of the Kings – you study this stuff, right? Name the place and I'll take you there. I got a new balloon, y'know," he added, beaming with pride.

Evelyn gave a wry smile, a bit sad, shook her head, and said nothing. It worked. Izzy understood. His eyes widened again, his mouth opened, and he swiftly spun on his heels and ran back behind the door, locking it behind him.

Alex rolled his eyes and muttered something Evelyn didn't quite catch.

"Exactly what did you say, Alex?"

"Nothing, Mum," he replied quickly. Too quickly. Evy smiled.

"That's what I thought."

"What are we doing, then?" he asked, grasping the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

"I think we might in need of a little persuasion."

Grabbing the bags, she walked to the door, Alex behind her, and knocked firmly on the wood.

"Izzy, open this door! This is ridiculous – nobody's going to shoot you!"

"That's what O'Connell said last time!" came Izzy's voice from a little far behind the door. "But last time was worse than any time I got shot! What d'you want me for this time?"

"Something that does not include danger for you in any form – now open up!"

Evelyn was starting to get angry. She missed her husband, she missed her brother, and Izzy was beginning to piss her off seriously, to use one of Rick's colourful expressions.

That's when she noticed Alex had put his bag on the ground and was searching his pockets.

"Alex, what are you doing?"

The boy didn't answer. His face lit up as he fished a large paper clip from under his pocket handkerchief, "Got it."

Evelyn stared as Alex pulled and twisted the paper clip into a certain shape. Then, as if this was the most natural thing in the world, he introduced it in the lock and began to turn it gingerly, his ear close to the door, listening raptly to catch any possible sound.

"Alexander John O'Connell! Why, I never –"

She was interrupted by the sound of a lock opening, and Alex grinned up at her.

"Aw, Mum, you know I hate it when you call me that."

Evelyn remained speechless for a second as her son put his paper clip back into his pocket. While she was perfectly aware that Alex knew a good few tricks in the wide book of stealth and eavesdropping, it was the first time she saw him actually try something like this – and make it work.

Alex was still grinning proudly, and she smiled in spite of herself. After all, skills like this _could_ come in handy. But still … It wasn't proper to be proud about having the possibility to start a successful career in burglary. No matter what some people argued.

"Well … I think I'll have to speak with your uncle."

"Don't be angry at him, _I_ asked him to show me this trick."

"My point exactly."

She put her hand on the doorknob …

The door had a bolt on the inside.

Alex's face fell. Evelyn took pity of him and smiled reassuringly.

"Don't worry, dear. I'll just take a leaf out of your father's book, now, shall I? It wouldn't be the first time."

She shook the door a little bit, to know exactly where the bolt was, and, as Alex's eyes slightly widened at her, pulled out a short-muzzle shotgun from the bag she had put the lot of them into and checked it was loaded.

"Izzy, wherever you are, I hope it's not behind this door," she said calmly as she pointed the gun at the door and pressed the trigger. There was a loud crack, the recoil almost made her arm shake, but when the small cloud of smoke dissipated, she could see the bolt on the ground, and, on the door, a hole where it had been blasted off. She reached, and, delicately, knocked on the maimed door.

A shaking black hand pulled it slowly open, and Izzy's pleading face appeared.

"No, Mrs O'Connell, no … not that _place_ again …," he moaned. "Please. That place is nothin' but trouble. Just to get to it there was that wall o' water, then we crashed, and then there was those weird noises …"

"Oh, _that_? That was nothing," said Alex self-confidently. Izzy gave him an odd look.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, just a bunch of pyg–"

Evelyn just had the time to put a hand on her son's mouth before he could say 'pygmy mummies'. This perhaps would have been a little too much for Izzy to bear. Then she gave her most 'Mum' smile at the pilot.

"Izzy, we just need you to take us there. There's no one chasing us, nobody after us – nothing's going to happen to you. Besides, we don't have much time, we have an appointment at Fort Brydon at eight."

"Mmhrph. What do you need to go in that bloody desert for?" Izzy asked gruffly. "Last time, there was nuthin' left but sand – and blood, too, I bet."

Evy decided to play the 'serious' card. She narrowed her eyes and set her mouth in a firm line.

"Well, my husband and my brother have been taken. I will get them back, and I'll do whatever it takes."

"Yeah, me too," Alex chimed in at her elbow. Evelyn smiled inwardly at her son's determination. He looked so sure of himself despite his small height that she felt her own spirits lift.

Izzy shifted uncomfortably. "So, you say O'Connell's in trouble?"

"As I understand it, some thugs have kidnapped him and Jonathan for information about the pyramid of Ahm Shere. Since the two of them think it no longer exists, I think we could say that they are indeed in trouble."

Obviously, Izzy was seriously torn between rushing off to his new balloon and scramming out of here, and help Rick for the sake of whatever they had done in the past. _Let's press this issue, then._

"Izzy, I may not know a great deal about my husband's past, but you have known him before I did – I'm sure you'll prove me right if I venture that he's not the kind of man who lets his friends down. He never let _you_ down, did he ?"

In response to her kind tone, she got a mild glare and a sort of growl. "Oh yeah, he did, coupla times. Like that time with the belly-dancer g– but I'm not telling you about that."

Too late – Alex's eyes had widened. "Belly-dancer girl? _Dad?_"

Izzy shot him a swift warning glance, "You'll ask him when you get him back, kiddo."

Alex made a face, frowning. "Not fair. Nobody tells me anything interesting."

Evelyn turned back to the pilot, thinking there had been enough straying from the subject.

"Izzy, please. Rick himself said you'd never let him down before."

"_Turned him down_, Ma'am, not let him down. There's a difference. Then again, there's a firs' time for everythin', I guess. I'm sorry, Mrs O'Connell, you're very nice and all, and kiddo here is nice too, but the answer's no."

He gave her a sort of salute, putting two fingers to his flying hat, and turned away. This time, Evelyn was really angry. Ignoring her son's amazed stare, she picked up again the gun that she had used to blast the bolt off, and fired a warning shot that resounded all around the place and made the sand fly inches away from Izzy's left foot. There was a strangled yelp, a herd of goats passing by a few metres away bleated in startled protest, and the pilot whirled round, looking panic-stricken.

"You – you – what the hell are you doin' with that thing? You're not gonna shoot me for real, are ya?"

"I didn't plan to," Evy replied as coldly as she could – and it seemed to be quite efficient, "but I'm going to if you don't take us to Ahm Shere, or where Ahm Shere used to be."

Izzy stared at her.

"You don't know how to handle my dirigible," he said quickly. "And if you shoot me, you'll have nobody to guide you to –"

Evelyn cocked the gun, ignoring the fact that the butt seemed to burn her palms, and allowed herself a very small smile. "Izzy … You are _not_ the only pilot in this part of Egypt. Or even in Cairo, for that matter."

Alex looked at Izzy, then at his mother, his child-like round face beaming. "Whoa, Mum … that's some serious buttock-kicking! Cool!"

Izzy rolled his eyes, and muttered under his breath something that sounded like, "Family of nutcases."

Of course, the next second, he was helping Evelyn carrying the bags. Evelyn thanked him warmly. He only gave a resigned sigh and shook his head.

For her part, she unloaded the gun and put it back into her bag with a lot of relief. She really felt no fondness of any sort for weapons like these; but she also knew that having a few of them into her bag could be useful if things turned dirty.

Alex and she followed Izzy down the path to the airport properly speaking, and both of them stopped for a second to look at Izzy's 'new dirigible'. Gone was the hand-made, patchwork balloon with a small fisherman's boat for a bottom. What stood – or rather floated – in front of them was brand-new, light grey, slender, moulded like an arrow, and had a number of windows along the hull of its bottom. The windows had patchwork curtains to them, the only remains of Izzy's bizarre flying contraption, and Evelyn, strangely enough, found herself almost missing the former dirigible.

The proud owner made a great gesture toward the dirigible, the silver teeth gleaming even more in the morning sun. "Ain't she beautiful?"

"Your favours seem short-lived, Izzy," Evelyn said with a smile. "I remember you saying these same words about your old dirigible."

"Yeah, but the old one was a slug compared to _her_. And Dee's great for blendin' with the sky – grey, y'know. _And_ Dee works on hot air. Cheaper, less dangerous – can't have customers blowin' up, can I?"

Evelyn frowned. "Dee?"

Izzy cleared his throat. "Gave her a name. So's not to get her mixed up with the old one. That's Dee for 'dirigible'."

Alex gave a laugh, "Well, could've been worse."

Izzy frowned down at him, "I figured you'd be a smart ass kid, kid."

"Now, don't go using this kind of language in front of my son," said Evelyn, trying to sound serious. The state of things was bad enough already with Rick and Jonathan around. "Right. Help me with that line over there."

"This rope?"

"Yeah, that rope. Go aboard and catch it when I throw it."

Alex was already on board, leaning against the rail. Evelyn complied, a bit puzzled. When she asked Izzy where the men who worked at the 'Magic Carpet Airways' were, he grumbled, "They're gone, ain't they? We're s'pposed to be closed on Sundays and Mondays, and today's a Monday. So you see, I'm really helpin' you because it's you – and 'cause you're paying well. So maybe O'Connell will do me a favour and not need help after that. 'Specially from me."

Evelyn gave him a genuine smile, "Thank you all the more for it, Mr Buttons."

"Quit that 'Mr Buttons' business," Izzy said gruffly, but smiling a bit all the same. "Sounds either too serious or too ridiculous."

"All right, Izzy. Are we ready to go?"

"Yup. All aboard? Yes? Well, ready to go, then."

Izzy hoped into the dirigible as the last cable was pulled in, and took his place at the helm. Alex ran to the bow to have a better look at the landscape, and Evelyn sat down on the sort of bench that ran the length of the hull under the rail.

Egypt in the morning was certainly one of the most beautiful places in the world. Far away down south, the dunes, not yet flattened by the implacable sun, stood proudly, casting shadows that were still long on the orange yellow sand. Evelyn watched the white little houses of Cairo in the north getting smaller and smaller, and turned as the pyramids of Giza were growing bigger. She could even start to see the Sphinx.

"We won't overtake 'em before four of five this afternoon, 'specially if you want to stop by the Fort," said Izzy, whose eyes were also directed at the Pyramids. "Maybe we'll be close when we stop for the night, so you'll have plenty o' time to look at them."

"Thank you," Evelyn replied, still looking at the great shapes casting shadows even greater than themselves.

It was a minute or two past eight when the walls of Fort Brydon came into view. At the foot of the wall stood a lone, black-clad figure. Ardeth Bay wore his black, worn travel robes, and it definitely looked like he was carrying every weapon he owned.

"Him again?" Izzy cast a glance that was half glare, half pleading look at Evelyn. "So it's gonna be just like last time, then. Gloom and doom and the world wiped out an' all!"

"No," Evy said firmly, "It isn't. And be nice to Ardeth, he came here to help when he could have done otherwise." _At least _he_ isn't going to complain about the destination of the journey._

When the dirigible came down to the level of the Medjai Commander, he looked it over for a few seconds, then shook his head with a strange sort of grin. After he climbed onboard, he gave Evelyn this same look and said calmly, "I am _not_ going to comment on this. But … I suppose there wasn't _any_ other means of transportation, was there?"

"Hey, watch it," snapped Izzy, his wariness forgotten, bristling at this odd guy insulting his beloved Dee. "I'm not that happy to have you onboard either, so don't you go sayin' dirty things about my dirigible."

Ardeth stared at the pilot for a while, during which Izzy's dark cheeks seemed to lose a little bit of their colour; then a slight smile flickered over his dark face, and he said, "Apologies. Now quickly, if you please – there's no time to lose."

Evelyn shook her head to hide a grin; Alex didn't bother, and his clear laugh rang in the morning air. Izzy harrumphed and went to take his place behind the helm. The dirigible rose through the air, and Fort Brydon seemed to float away.

A moment's silence passed, only troubled by the flapping of the airs screws and the whooshing of the wind past the dirigible, then Izzy asked almost casually, "So … don't mean to pry, but what's the deal this time? Whatever O'Connell's got himself into, it can't be _that_ bad … can it?"

* * *

Hehe… I had a lot of fun with Izzy. My alternative title (one that didn't have anything to do with songs – I have one for almost every chapter) was going to be 'The Misgivings of Izzy Buttons', but I guess that would have given away too much :D What do you think Izzy is the short version of, by the way? My beta reader thinks it's probably Isaac, but there's a funny name I know that could work, which is Isidore – one of those outrageously French names the few poor kids who wear them are now rather unhappy about. But I guess that, in the beginning of the 20th century, it must have been pretty common. Then again, it's just a thought :D 

**_Eris_** That's just the point of moments like these in stories, dear :o) I'm glad you feel bad for Tommy, but I can tell you, we've not seen the last of him – and he's in for quite a ride, too :o)

**_Lilylynn_** Thanks :o) I guess that you mean 'pimp' as something good, but on my dictionary the only translation is its usual meaning! Anyway, the next chapter should be coming soon, but after that one, the chapters will be much slower to come, because I'll be sending them to my beta reader and posting them as I write. So be patient :o)

**_EggSalad_** Thanks a great big enormous bunch :D I needed a time limit, if only because of the pacing. That's something that bothers me a little in my Harry Potter MWPP, because it stretches out over an entire school year, and it's much more descriptive. Think I'll rewrite it one of those days; I won't make major changes, just rephrase stuff, maybe fix one or two characters – it's a wonder nobody's seemed (yet!) to notice there's something wonky with the Gryffindor first-year dorm – and generally fix some things up. As for the "creepy, supernatural side"… Ooh, I enjoyed writing that one :D Poor Tommy was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. But he's in deep, all right. I would definitely _not_ want to be in his shoes – he really has a bit more than his share of rotten luck! But there _are_ some things he's lucky for :hint to a further chapter :o)

So you want to be a school librarian? Neat! What courses do you have to take to become one? I wonder if it's very different from here in France…

Much of love!

:o)


	12. Caravan

**Author's Notes:** Hello, everybody :o) Hope you're all right, it's been a little while! So this chapter's title comes from a song of Duke Ellington's; there's also a great cover of this song by Dr John, if you're interested. In this chapter, Jonathan's enduring (endearing? ;o) relationship with camels, a little delving into Evy's past life, and a course on party-crashing by our favourite black-clad desert tribe :o)

_Disclaimer: I own now a copy of the _Master and Commander_ DVD (always loved boats, ships and everything relating to the seas and oceans :o) But that's irrelevant) and seven books of O'Brian's series (four that I read in one week), but I'm afraid to say I don't own the characters, backgrounds and events depicted in _The Mummy_ and _The Mummy Returns_. Technically, I own Tommy Ferguson, Charles Hamilton and a small bunch of minor characters. But would _you_ gladly claim you own a guy like Hamilton? Seriously. :D_

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

**_Chapter 12: Caravan_**

"I hate camels."

"You've been rambling on about that long enough for me to pick that up."

"Always did, for that matter."

"And I always did hear you complain about them. Give the beast a break, why don't you?"

Jonathan huffed and made a disgusted face.

"If at least the blighter would behave correctly, but no – I think it's got something to do with their blood, you know? I've never, ever seen a camel that could be labelled as 'nice'."

Rick rolled his eyes.

"Don't know why we even bother with those smelly buggers – why couldn't we ride something civilised such as … Such as horses? Horses are _civilised_."

"Jonathan, do me a favour, will ya? Shut up."

This earned Rick a dark glare, before his brother-in-law returned to staring at the endless dunes in front of him.

"No, really, I mean it – don't you th–"

"Jonathan!"

"All right, all right, no need to shout, now, is there?"

Rick wiped the sweat off his brow with the cloth he wore on his head and looked at the Englishman in the eye.

"One, camels are more used to the desert than horses, so it's safer to ride them. Two, horses too can be pretty much a pain in the ass when they have a mind to and three – it's near noon, the sun's right up beating down on our heads and it's too damn scorching around here for you to keep complaining like that!"

Jonathan's cold, steady glare surprised Rick, who wasn't used to getting this kind of reaction from him. Usually he would just shrug dejectedly and mutter under his breath for a while until he had something else to say and the previous conversation was forgotten. Then again, Rick reflected, Jonathan had seemed to change more in the past two days than the past ten months.

After Rick had thrown himself on the lousy mattress on the floor of the truck, he had slept soundly until he had been woken up both by the heat rising in the truck and somebody shaking him. Beside him, Jonathan also had sat up, bleary-eyed and his short curly hair sticking up in every possible direction. As it seemed, it would be growing too hot in the truck for them to stay in there during the day, so they were to ride camels until nightfall.

And it was the sixth time that Jonathan had disgustedly stated his hatred of camels since morning dawned.

On the other hand, it was true that his own mount must have been one of the most reluctant animals Rick had ever seen. It seemed to hate Jonathan as much as Jonathan hated it, and never lost an occasion to show it. When it wasn't trying to shake off its rider and make him taste a mouthful of sand, it was straying from the trail and wandering off, despite Jonathan repeatedly pulling on the reins to make it get back in line.

So yes, maybe he did have grounds for complaining.

Which didn't mean he had to do it all the time.

But Rick had absolutely no intention to swap camels – his was a strong, steady old beast and he had taken something of a liking to it. And he sure as hell wasn't giving it away in exchange for some damn crazy animal which didn't like the thought of a human sitting on the lump on its back.

"I say, Rick –" The American turned back to Jonathan, who looked normal again, if a little pissed off on the side about the camel, "– Do you think they'll mind giving us a drop to drink?"

"What – don't tell me you've run out already!"

"Mmh, actually, yes, I have. But I'll have you know that the water-skin was already half empty when they gave it to me."

"I'd say it was half full, Jonathan," Rick said, grinning. For his part, Jonathan looked for a second as though he was about to stick out his tongue at him. Then he cracked a small smile.

"You and your humour. Happy to be back in the desert, are you?"

"Not really, but for the moment that's all we have. Anyway, about that water – want some of mine?"

Jonathan seemed to consider, but shook his head. "Actually, I was thinking about something stronger. Along the lines of brandy, or gin or something."

Rick couldn't help stealing a glance at his brother-in-law, frowning. He almost had a mind to ask Jonathan if he was all right; but as he appeared perfectly normal, the American hid a smile and said, quite seriously, "Well, you can always ask 'em."

The Englishman gave a firm nod, apparently unaware that Rick was enjoying himself perhaps a little too much. He somehow managed to get his camel to slow down to come near the guy behind them, one of Hamilton's anonymous agents. Despite the heat and his black suit, the guy looked undeterred.

"Erm, excuse me –" Jonathan too was undeterred, apparently. "Would you by chance be in possession of something to drink? Preferably something with alcohol in it, if it's all the same to you."

The guy stared at him for a full minute, a single eyebrow up, long enough for Rick to think he looked pretty stupid. Then something flashed in his eyes, and he spoke coldly but politely:

"Why, no problem at all, sir. How would you like some whiskey?"

"I have to say that a G&T would be a bit more refreshing, but if that's the best you've got …" Jonathan replied, looking a bit dumbfounded. Rick began to shake with silent laughter. He found it even more difficult to suppress his mirth when their 'guard' switched expressions and snapped, "Of course not! There's water if you're thirsty. And I guess you'd be less thirsty if you weren't talking all the time."

From the corner of his eye, Rick saw Jonathan open his mouth, not let out a sound, then glare at the guard, "Just asking."

The guy shrugged, and slowed his camel to fall back behind the two without another word. It was only then that Jonathan seemed to realise that Rick, who could barely suppress his laughter, was in fact making fun of him just a little.

"Well, that's nice!" he said indignantly as Rick finally burst out laughing. "Not so supportive of you. To think you're family."

"Oh, c'mon. Don't say you didn't see it coming!"

"As a matter of fact, no, I didn't. I was just asking something politely."

Rick shook his head, still grinning. "Trust an Englishman to be polite to the guys behind his kidnapping. You're weird."

Jonathan threw him a sideways glance, "You know, Rick, sometimes I really do wonder whether living for years in England had somehow improved your behaviour in society."

"Well? Did it, in your opinion?"

"Not at all." It was Jonathan's turn to grin quizzically as he added, as an afterthought, "But I found out quite a while ago that it's fine that way."

Silence settled for a little while, comfortable enough, but all-encompassing as it can only get in the middle of the desert, with just the cloudless, endless sky above your head, and the sand of the dunes, just as endless, beneath your feet. It didn't really help either that the only other human beings with them were guys led by one hell-bent on mass destruction and world domination.

Except for the last part, however, Rick was beginning to re-adjust to his surroundings – the scorching heat, the blinding white light reverberated by the dunes all around them. Being part for three or four years of the Cairo garrison of the French Foreign Legion meant spending a lot of time patrolling the desert, fighting everything that resembled desert tribes striving for independence from either the French or the English, and, basically, biting a lot of sand all day – and night – long. It quickly became rather dull.

However, since the first time he had laid eyes on Evelyn, life had immediately gained some spice. Well, not really from that very first moment, because the next, he'd been hanging from the end of a rope; he had really come to understand how much dullness was to be banned from his vocabulary when he had looked up, still trying to recover the breath he had been deprived of thanks to the noose at his neck, into the fine-featured, lovely, and quite smug face of Evelyn Carnahan. Ever since _that_ moment, there never had been a single dull moment in his life. This didn't include nice, little moments of peace and quiet: Evy and he had managed to keep those, even when Alex had barely been a bundle of sheets who kicked, screamed and smelled foul, who needed to be looked after every single minute of the day – and night.

But dull? Never. Not with Evy, nor Alex.

And, judging from the sudden yell on his left that made Rick almost start, nor with Jonathan either. Or maybe the camel was to blame, as he saw it pelt across the desert without, seemingly, any agreement from his rider, who was pulling at the reins with all his might, struggling to remain on the saddle while screaming bloody murder.

Rick shook his head with a grin he couldn't hold back, and set off at top speed to catch the wild camel before one of Hamilton's cronies decided to get his gun and shoot the beast – and the rider.

* * *

Izzy's new dirigible was definitely cosier than the former, Evelyn reflected as she gazed down at the silent, yellow-white dunes flattened by the afternoon sun. There were cushions tied on the seats, the paint was new and made everything shine, and the deck was longer, though not long enough to lose sight of Alex, who had apparently decided to explore every nook and cranny of it. Even the tea somehow tasted better. 

Evelyn put her cup in her saucer, holding it lightly but firmly so as not to send it flying down into the desert, and shifted her gaze to the Nile, far below the airship. An eerie, uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu had slowly crept over her as the dirigible flew away from Fort Brydon and Cairo into the desert, and she was hauntingly reminded of the last time she had seen the Pyramids of Giza from this height, as the sun set over Egypt, while she worried herself sick over the kidnapping of her son, with Rick's strong, loving embrace around her, as if to keep the fear at bay … She missed him, right now, so much that something tightened painfully in her chest and her stomach. The heat was crushing, the sun implacable, but she couldn't help shivering slightly, as if a cold wind brushed past her.

Two years ago, on a similar dirigible, she had remembered – or had been reminded – of her past life as Nefertiri, daughter of Seti the 1st whom Imhotep and Anck-su-namun had murdered. As the odd, thick fog had hit the ship, she had ceased to be Evelyn O'Connell, wife of Rick O'Connell, daughter of Gehane and John Carnahan – she had re-lived the events of the night, three thousand years ago, when a girl's life had turned upside down when her father had been assassinated in front of her. It had taken quite a while for her to calm down, and she remembered little of what had happened between the moment when she had rushed and all but thrown herself over the rail and when she had recovered all her senses; Rick's warm arms, the fabric of his shirt and his reassuring smell, Jonathan asserting, in an odd, slightly shaking voice, that their father died years and years ago in a landslide, the over-bright eyes in the middle of the dark blur that was all she could see of Ardeth Bay, Izzy's gangly figure here and there to bring a tea tray with four steaming cups …

Since then, the events of Ahm Shere, plus some explaining from Ardeth and some researching on her part had clarified a lot of it. But she had had other dreams. At first she had dismissed them, thinking it was logical that she should have nightmares about dying at Ahm Shere, since it _was_ something that wasn't quite common; but there was something about those dreams that felt … foreign. She remembered a strange ring on her finger that bore a cartouche she couldn't quite decipher; she remembered her husband's frantic, desperate eyes above her, but those eyes were jet-black, not blue as Rick's were. Alex and Jonathan were nowhere in sight. And what was more, neither were Imhotep nor Anck-su-namun.

Instead, at the other end of the dagger she sometimes still felt sinking lethally into her stomach at night, was a man's tanned face, with ice-cold black eyes lined with kohl, a black Egyptian-style wig, and a thin mouth twisted in a cruel grimace that resembled a grin. The face always seemed to shine with triumph. And it never failed to haunt her for a few minutes after waking up in the middle of the night, drenched with sweat, her heart pounding, feeling lost and scared and furious at the same time. Usually, it was then that she noticed again her husband's steady, deep rumble of a breathing beside her, and she snuggled against him, seeking a little peace.

The beat of Evelyn's heart quickened at the mere memory of those false nightmares. False, because she had a feeling, deep inside her, that she had already lived it. And not only two years ago. Those 'dreams' had the same feeling about them as the visions she had begun to have at the beginning of the last Year of the Scorpion. And right now, on this dirigible, there was only one man she knew who could give her any answers.

She glanced at Alex, who was busy bombarding Izzy with numerous questions about 'Dee', and turned to Ardeth, who had finished tying a small paper to the foot of the honey-brown falcon he had called Neit.

"Ardeth …," she said in a low voice after a sharp intake of breath, "do you know how Nefertiri died?"

Ardeth looked up from the bird and up at her in surprise. "I know only what I have heard, what the Elders were willing to tell me," he said slowly, as if carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"Why do you answer a question by a question?" said Evy, smiling a little. However, her smile must have been a bit shaky, because he let the falcon fly away and turned to her, frowning.

"You've had other dreams."

It wasn't a question. Evelyn nodded. "Yes, I've dreamt of Ahm Shere every now and then. But there's something confusing about those dreams, because things aren't quite the same – I know Rick is there, but he's the only one I recognise. And it's not Anck-su-namun who is stabbing me, but a man I don't know at all. What do you make of it?"

Ardeth stared at her for a second, then his sharp features relaxed ever so slightly, "What makes you think I have the answer to everything?" Evelyn waited, knowing that something was still to come. She was right, because the next moment, his face was sombre again. "Well," he began slowly, "it is said that Princess Nefertiri died at Ahm Shere."

Evy, who was more or less expecting something along those lines, couldn't help a pang, as of fear. "What happened?" she asked in a whisper. Ardeth lowered his voice.

"You certainly know that Nefertiri, after Seti's death, had become the guardian of the Bracelet of Anubis – those memories led you to the temple of Hierakonpolis two years ago, where you found the Bracelet. Nefertiri was a very good guardian, it seemed; she was clever, a cunning strategist, but three years after Seti's death, there was treason among the guards and the Bracelet was stolen.

"The man who stole the Bracelet called himself Narmer, which, as you probably know, is the name of the first Pharaoh of the First Dynasty, the successor of the Scorpion King. It seemed he intended to bring the Bracelet to Ahm Shere, and waken the Scorpion King. Nefertiri, hearing of the theft, rushed after him, leaving her young brother Rameses behind in Thebes and taking only her personal escort with her. They were fifty strong men, but only one came back to Thebes a few months after.

"His name was Semerheb, and his twin brother Semerkhet was also among Nefertiri's personal escort."

Evelyn's heart raced at this point of the tale. _Semerkhet__ …_ She was almost certain that she had already heard the name somewhere. It felt so familiar …

"He told of a race across the desert, in the hopes to catch Narmer before he reached Ahm Shere, if indeed he knew where to find it, and take the Bracelet from him. They managed to cross the cursed oasis around the Pyramid with heavy losses on the part of Nefertiri's escort, but they arrived at the foot of the Pyramid before him. It was a trap, as they soon discovered, for Narmer was hidden and sprang upon Nefertiri with a knife. Semerheb then told how his brother Semerkhet was devastated by this murder, and killed Narmer with his own hands before he even reached the entrance of the pyramid.

"The rest of the escort brought back the body of the princess and the Bracelet of Anubis through the oasis, but when they finally reached the open desert, only two remained alive, for Semerheb had lived to see his brother die saving his life from the creatures that dwelt in the oasis, and the other didn't survive long. Fortunately, it happened that a troop of the Pharaoh's army passed soon after, and collected the body of Nefertiri and Semerheb, who died before they even reached Thebes."

Images from her visions rushed in front of Evy's eyes, following Ardeth's words. Suddenly it all seemed to make sense – the ring with her father's cartouche that she now remembered clearly, looking into her murderer's eyes as he twisted the dagger into her stomach … And something deeper, the absolute certitude that the desperate black eyes above her as she lay dying, pleading, begging her not to die belonged to Rick, and none other. She lifted her eyes to meet Ardeth's.

"What kind of relationship did Nefertiri and Semerkhet share?"

"Do you have memories of this too?" Ardeth asked after a second's silence.

Evelyn felt herself blushing. "Not quite," she said, feeling self-conscious. "In fact, it's more like impressions, feelings – nothing certain."

Ardeth stared at her. Something in his unblinking black eyes seemed to dance with quiet amusement. It felt funny to think that those same eyes had looked so deadly serious a few seconds ago.

After a minute, she gave in. "All right, all right," she said, the tips of her ears quite hot. "I have serious reason to think that Rick might be a reincarnation of Semerkhet. But if my memory's right, you once said that Rick is a Medjai – how does all of this make sense?"

Ardeth took his time to answer, and when he did, he looked serious again, though not so grave as he was a few minutes ago. "Think about it, Evelyn. It does make sense. Semerkhet was a Medjai, and Nefertiri's personal escort was composed only of trusted Medjai who guarded her in Thebes. If indeed O'Connell is a reincarnation of Semerkhet, then he was protecting you in your past life, just as O'Connell does now."

The thought that Rick and her could be a sort of 'match made in Heaven', as they say, certainly sounded very romantic, but Evelyn couldn't help narrowing her eyes slightly at Ardeth. "So, according to you, everything's already written and History just likes to repeat itself?"

Ardeth gave a slight shrug. "I don't know – maybe it's entirely a matter of belief. But there are some things that find an echo in the history of the world, and I personally do not quite believe in coincidences."

Evelyn's stomach did a very unpleasant flip. "An echo … Ardeth, do you mean I should have died at Ahm Shere and shared the same fate as Nefertiri?"

"Evelyn, history repeating itself or not, it all comes down to choices in the end, and the people who make them. It might be that, if it had been just you and O'Connell in this pyramid against Imhotep and Anck-su-namun, you would not have come out of there alive."

_Of course …_ She had only come out of there alive because Alex had read from the Book of the Dead to resurrect her while Jonathan drew Anck-su-namun's attention from him. So the presence of her son and her brother, and, in a way, the presence of the two mummies – who carried the Book of the Dead – had triggered something that had altered the story and changed her fate.

"Alex and Jonathan …" she muttered, smiling a little. "They made the difference. I didn't see the two of them in any of my visions because they just _weren't_ there – but they were two years ago …"

"And this is why you are here as well," Ardeth smiled in turn. "It takes very little to change fate."

Evelyn eased herself on the seat, thinking about many things at once. Then she looked again at Ardeth, and gave a genuine grin.

"And this is 'only what the Elders have told you'? You must have a very good memory!"

Ardeth stared at her for a second, then his teeth bared in a similar grin, "The Elders are very good story-tellers. And I must admit I have a fondness for good story-telling."

Evelyn's smile broadened. Then he rose with an apology, and crossed over to the pilot. Izzy was talking animatedly to Alex, and from the words Evelyn could gather from where she sat, it was some sort of strange story about the Nile, a boat, and a herd of half-wild camels.

"I must meet my fellow Medjai at this precise spot," Ardeth was saying when Evelyn walked closer to the small group. "Do you think we can reach it by nightfall?"

Izzy frowned down at Ardeth's tattooed finger on the map. "Dunno … sounds pretty far out from where we are now. I guess if I could get that boiler hot enough an' all, with our weight, it'd take us a coupla hours. Bit after nightfall."

If Ardeth was disappointed by this bit of news, he didn't let anything show on this face. He only nodded, and left Izzy with a short but polite, "Do your best. This meeting is important."

"I bet he's going to wait for that falcon now," said Alex, looking briefly at his mother before returning to Izzy for the end of the story.

Evelyn wondered exactly why this meeting was so important. She did have an idea, but deep down, she hoped she was wrong.

* * *

The sun was setting on the desert where Hamilton's men had settled for the night. The most beautiful part was over, and now the huge sky hanging over everybody's head was turning a very deep blue that made Jonathan feel a bit small looking at it. He always preferred the first part, the one where the sun sent a different kind of light into every direction, lighting up everything before the night engulfed them and turned everything dark. 

His favourite moment of the day had always been dawn anyway.

Maybe it was the immensity of the sky, or night settling over the camp, or the slight wind turning cold, or perhaps it was the fact that everyone around him seemed busy doing all sorts of things you do in a camp – except the couple of agents who were just sitting a few feet away with their revolvers in their hands, watching him – but Jonathan was beginning to feel a bit miffed, and possibly a little lonely as well. There was nothing he could do but sit there, watching the blokes in front of him watching him with the grim expression that seemed to be the only one they ever put on their faces, and gaze around him at the others pitching tents and carrying sleeping bags all over the place. Rick had gone off in search for some food for his camel and all that Jonathan knew about his own camel was that it had been fed; it was now sleeping a few feet away, its big hump rising and falling with the rhythm of its breath. _Useless bugger._

"I hear he's been givin' you trouble all day long, eh?"

Jonathan started slightly and glanced up to his left to see Tommy standing there, his hands in his pockets. The wind ruffled his blond mop, making his fringe fall into his eyes, and for a second, he looked like the round-faced boy whose principal goals in life were to eat well, have fun, and put a smile on the face of every pretty girl he saw.

Jonathan felt very tired all of a sudden.

"Yeah," he muttered. "You know my luck. They've given me the only beast who just enjoys making people suffer. Or maybe it simply hates me, I don't know." He paused for a second, and added with a shrug, "And I don't give a damn, either."

Tommy didn't say anything for a few seconds, and the silence between them was filled with the various sounds and noises of people bustling about around them. Jonathan looked at them for a while, not sure if he wanted to meet Tom's eyes.

The silence grew uncomfortable.

"Look, Jon –"

Jonathan looked up again to see Tom, definitely uneasy, trying to find his words. It didn't seem to work very well, as he gave a sort of wince and finished with something like defeat in his tone, "You're not gonna hit me again if I just sit there, are you?"

A bitter sort of chuckle was stuck in Jonathan's throat, but he gestured to Tom to sit in a would-be casual manner. After the Liverpudlian had settled himself on the ground, he asked in a low voice, "Did it really hurt that much?"

"Still does," Tom replied with the shadow of a grin. Close to, his jaw did look a little blue in patches. "I had no idea you could hit that hard."

"Neither did I."

"Been practicing then?"

"Not really. I guess you just tend to bring that out in people."

"I beg to differ. Last time I checked, you were the best."

"The best at what, punching?"

Tommy's teeth showed white in the growing dark, "No, gettin' punched!"

That did it. Corny as hell, but it did it. Jonathan felt a fit of incontrollable, irresistible giggles break through whatever was stuck in his throat, and the next second, he burst into a Homeric sort of laughter, making Tommy jump a foot in the air and stare at him with a very startled expression in his brown eyes.

"Wha'? Am I that funny?" he asked, looking dumbfounded, as though wondering whether Jonathan had finally gone quite unhinged.

"Don't worry, you're not," Jonathan gasped when he finally managed to take in a long, deep breath. Calming down, he proceeded to wipe the tears of laughter out of his eyes while Tom cracked a small smile and waited patiently for a few seconds.

"I'm still mad at you," he reminded the Liverpudlian firmly when he trusted his voice to sound serious enough. "Don't you forget that."

Tommy gave a shrug, and his eyes wandered to the tents in front of them. "Not likely."

For a brief moment, he looked just as tired and cold and lonely as Jonathan felt. Still not looking directly at his old friend, he muttered in a very low voice, barely moving his lips, "Jon … What if I told you that these Medjai you told me about knew Hamilton's intentions and where he intends to go?"

This was so unexpected that for a moment, Jonathan couldn't say anything. His breath caught in his throat, and a million thoughts began to spin in his mind.

This was very good news. _Very_ good news. He had tried to think of an escape plan all day long, and he was pretty sure that Rick had had the same line of thought. But what is the point of trying to escape in the middle of the desert if you have no directions and no help?

On the other hand, it wasn't that reassuring a piece of news. Jonathan had already found himself on the wrong side of a Medjai attack, and although he knew perfectly well that Ardeth would never put Rick's and his lives at risk on purpose, he was also very much aware that the Medjai could do anything to keep people like that Hamilton from dangerous places. And even if the pyramid and the oasis were both buried so deep in the sand of the desert that Jonathan could never be able to tell where all of this had happened, Ahm Shere _was_ a dangerous place. And Hamilton was just as dangerous.

"When d'you think they'll come?" he breathed, peering at the horizon as if searching for the familiar black-clad figures.

"I dunno," replied Tommy's equally low voice beside him. "Only thing I did was to go to the right guy and pass the word. I've never even seen one of them. What are they like?"

Jonathan couldn't help a snicker. "Don't you think you should have asked that before inviting them to the party?"

"Yeah, maybe I –" Tom stopped abruptly, and lowered his head, frowning. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Don't know, it sounded like … hooves or something."

It was Jonathan's turn to frown. Tom's sharp ears had saved them many troubles in their days, but the sound of hooves in a camp filled with camels was not entirely out-of-place. Besides, he couldn't hear anything of the sort.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm not sure, otherwise I wouldn't be asking you! Sounded like many horses trampling the sand. Can't you hear it?"

To Jonathan, the air was still filled with the same talking, shouting, occasional camel roaring, neighing, and possibly the crackling of the fire a few feet away. And the snores of his own pig-headed camel. But apart from that –

_Wait._ Something didn't sound quite right. Camels didn't neigh … but horses did.

"Tom?"

"Yeah?"

Something very odd twisted Jonathan's stomach. He had already seen the Medjai trying to scare the hell out of an expedition, and it had resulted in blood every time. His mind yelled at him to run or hide and do something intelligent, but another voice, a tiny voice in the back of his mind told him that _he_ didn't need to hide … but Tommy did.

"Can you still run for your life as quickly as we used to?"

Tom turned to him, visibly vexed, "Hey! Who d'you take me for, an old man?"

"Then _run_, you idiot!"

Just as Jonathan shouted, a black-clad figure riding a horse that looked unnaturally tall in the twilight burst in through the small space between the two tents in front of them. Tom stared round-eyed at the horse, its rider, and the long, pale scimitar he was wielding for a second, opened his mouth, and turned quickly in the opposite direction while Jonathan just remained standing there for a short moment, unsettled. Trusting the ever-resourceful Liverpudlian to take care of himself, he turned on his heels and hurried back to the camp, hoping he could find Rick or Ardeth in this noisy mess.

And a mess it was. Sand was flying everywhere under the hooves of both horses and camels in the red light of the few fires burning here and there that were left unattended. The agents certainly had a lot on their hands, hiding from the Medjai's gunfire while looking for their own weapons. A lot of people were running everywhere among the tents, shouting orders or yelling for help to come – or simply screaming their heads off.

Jonathan stopped near the remains of a tent – only a few long shreds of cloth were still attached to the iron frames – to take a look at the camp. Some Medjai were on foot now, fighting hand-to-hand or with their scimitars, stopping some Englishmen from grabbing their guns, knocking others with one solid punch on the head or in the stomach; the grim fierceness of the desert warriors seemed strengthened by the few black-clad unmoving bodies on the ground, mirroring some that wore the now traditional dark suit.

A movement behind him made him turn around; in a flash, he saw an agent running directly towards him, with his face twisted by what seemed fury or terror. Jonathan didn't wait to find out. He left hastily his relative shelter and scurried away without even looking in front of him, yelling the first name that crossed his mind – "Rick! _Help!_"

When he finally focused on something, it was the long barrel of a very black, very shiny, and very scary-looking gun pointed directly at the spot between his eyes, and behind it, the equally black, shining, scary-looking eyes of that agent Hamilton had called Bane, who was grinning broadly as he cocked the gun and muttered, "Gotcha!"

The Englishman skidded to a halt but, carried away by his own momentum, too late to stop himself from bumping hard into the dark suit behind the gun and knocking the both of them to the ground. Bane didn't get back up immediately, so Jonathan reached and picked up his long gun. Still a little bit dazed, he shook his head, spit out a mouthful of sand and, looking up, saw that the guy still running behind him was very close – too close. He saw him trying to avoid them but fail as he fell flat on Jonathan's back, who swallowed another mouthful of sand as his head hit the ground again. It seemed he even had some in his ears, because suddenly the incoming sounds seemed muffled.

"Bugger," he muttered, spitting sand while brushing dust out of his eyes. "Do I hate Mondays."

Somehow he managed to scramble back to his feet, his hand still grasping Bane's gun; chaos still raged around him, and there was nobody in sight he recognised. A sort of growl made him look down to the two agents sprawled in the dust: Bane was slowly raising his head, his mouth and his eyes half-open. Jonathan quickly sent him back to sleep with an enthusiastic blow on the head with the butt of the gun.

"_You_ – you stay here," he stuttered as if Bane could hear him, shaking slightly and his legs a bit wobbly from both fright and excitement from this small victory. Taking a deep breath, he continued his search for Rick or Ardeth.

And he found both. Problem was, they weren't alone.

Inside a large circle of tents in the middle of which a fire was glowering very red, Rick was kneeling, fury burning in his face, his jaws clenched, a trickle of blood running down a side of his head, with a gun resting on the back of his neck. Jonathan fell back against a tent, aghast, and his eyes went up the gun to the arm holding it firmly to the shoulder to the grim but triumphant-looking pale face of Hamilton. A few feet away, Ardeth stood straight, very tall, and very still, his scimitar still in his hand, while the fire made the shadows move everywhere.

"Now, since we understand each other," Hamilton was saying, his low, gritting voice sending shudders up Jonathan's spine, "you will back up and do exactly as I say. If, by chance, you have the slightest care about this man and the other, you will not approach us again, or I will shoot him without an ounce of remorse. The both of them are valuable, but not so much as I cannot dispense with them as I wish to. I'll leave the decision to you."

Ardeth had his back on Jonathan, who couldn't see his face and did not know what to make of what he did see. His heart thumping so loudly in his chest he was surprised nobody else seemed to hear it, he continued to stare at the scene among the tents, where time appeared to have stopped and sound to have been turned off as you do a wireless. As his eyes settled on Rick, the American caught his gaze, and in a flash, took in the gun he was still holding.

"_Shoot him, now!_" he mouthed, his round blue eyes flashing for a second to Hamilton standing next to him. "_Come _on_, shoot!_"

Jonathan felt his mouth dry abruptly. Suddenly very aware of his cold, clammy hands, and, rather absurdly, of the hungry rumbling of his stomach – he hadn't eaten since lunch – he just stood there, petrified. He couldn't do it. He could _not_ do it. What if, in his hurry, he shot Rick instead of Hamilton? What if somebody bumped into him and deflected a bullet originally well-aimed?

What if simply nothing happened at all, and Hamilton took the opportunity to 'dispense' with _him_ instead? After all, his own presence here was more accidental than anything – this nutcase would not hesitate for a second …

The oasis of Ahm Shere seemed very long ago and very, _very_ far away to Jonathan, who felt as if he had completely lost feeling in his forearms. All he could do was stare back at Rick's blinking eyes, round as saucers. "_What the hell are you waiting for?_" he was mouthing, probably none too happy with the feeling of the icy gun against his neck. Rick was not somebody something like this could frighten. But it certainly made him beside himself with anger.

Swallowing hard, Jonathan shook his head ever so slightly, and Rick opened his mouth, looking utterly disbelieving. At the same moment, Ardeth re-sheathed his scimitar and took one step back. The slightly scraping sound of the slender piece of iron resounded in the camp, echoing a few sighs of relief on the part of the small number of agents who had gathered around the scene. One didn't let out a sound, though – the only one who had seen Jonathan, and who was currently staring at him with curious brown eyes.

Ardeth gave a brief nod in Rick's direction and backed away without breaking eye contact with Hamilton, who didn't move his gun, but who now wore a smug expression on his face, illuminated by the glowing fire. The Medjai Commander mounted his horse, said something in Arabic to his men, and set off, still looking strangely at the chief operative.

After the dust had settled in the devastated camp, Hamilton stepped back from Rick and put his gun back in his belt, within easy reach. Rick stumbled up. An anonymous agent made the mistake of simply walking by a little too close to him; the American grabbed him by the collar and decked him in one fantastic blow that sent the guy flying a few feet away. He then strode across the camp to where Jonathan was and didn't even look at him when he passed him by, his face set. Jonathan did not look at Rick either, still staring at the spot he and Hamilton had been seconds ago.

* * *

Tommy watched people come and go, picking up the wounded and the dead, and Jonathan in the middle, still standing stiff as a board. He didn't move at all for the next fifteen minutes, after which Tom finally gathered nerve enough to come to stand a few feet away and open his mouth to say something – even the first thing that would come to his mind – to break the tension.

"Don't – say – _anything_."

There was something metallic in Jonathan's voice that made Tom back up in spite of himself. Not knowing what to do, he made a move as if to put a hand on his old friend's shoulder, but thought better of it and walked away.

Before turning round a corner, he risked a last glance at the pale figure, still unmoving and stiff as a board, who still had his back on him.

Jonathan didn't look back.

* * *

Ouch. All right, who honestly thought the journey to Ahm Shere was going to be a quiet, peaceful little business:o) Tense interactions are (along with the plot) the stuff stories are made of :P 

I got reviews, yeah

Now I shout out, yeah

Thanks to everybody

That made the day for me

I got reviews, yeah

:D

Hmm. I suck at poems/songs/whatsits that rhyme.

Right, now to business!

**_Eris_** Oh, I wouldn't worry about Izzy's opinion of the whole thing – I think he considers this as a sorry, nasty business he should scamper from as soon as he can, but if we take into account that he's been Rick's buddy/accomplice/partner in crime, I'd say he has an adaptability that can rival Rick's:o) I'd very much like to write a pre-Mummy story featuring the two of them. I've got the premises, and general plot bunny, but… I lack time :o) Hope you liked!

**_EggSalad_** You've got a good memory :o) Yes, that paper clip was indeed from Dr Hakim's office. I like little continuity details – it's the sort of thing that makes me enjoy reading a book/story or watching a film a fair few times. That and watching what happens in backgrounds :o) Izzy's a great character. One of those characters who seem to be only comic relief beside a mere narrative tool (like Winston; a means for the main characters to get to the next stage in the story), but who's greatly enjoyable as a fanfiction character because he has potential! Ok, now I'm rambling – but you see what I mean? As for Alex… well, I just couldn't resist :D I figured he must have learned (and will learn!) different skills from both his parents, and with a personality like his, the boy must have been very curious to have his uncle take part in his education :P (oh, and a wee little question relating to HP: do you think that the Weird Sisters are guys or girls? I got a somewhat cold review on the SugarQuill on one of my drawings by someone who mentioned cards or something.)

Journalism, sociology and school librarianship are very close of what we're learning this year, together with competitive intelligence, management of a resource centre, and law. One of our teachers is often holding Canada and Quebec as an example for good treatment of information as a general rule :o) Anyway, thanks for your constant support, and I hope you liked this chapter!

**_Dr Nat:_** Thanks:o) It was always something I wanted, to reverse the roles and see what happens. And Rick as the, erm… gentleman in distress :D sounded like a fun idea! But I didn't want Evy as the all-powerful, never-doubting, unsinkable, (:cough: Mary-Sue :cough) rescuer who comes on her white horse to get the helpless men out of trouble. That's not interesting… That's why I try to keep her as in-character as possible. So, right, she shoots off the bolt on Izzy's door and all but destroys the door – but she _knocks_ before entering :D By the way, your field trip sound kind of dangerous… what exactly does it consist in? ;o)

**_STC: _**Your M&C stories are mint, to use a word I picked up recently. I kind of tumbled recently on the fandom, after seeing the film again and reading a few of the books (I got as far as _The Reverse of the Medal_, if you don't count _The Far Side of the World_ – they don't have a lot of them in my usual bookshop), and I've read some very nice pieces. But reading (and re-reading) your stories was a treat. And reading a lot of other stories made me swear to myself that I wouldn't write anything about M&C before I understood and could place again every nautical term in the film, as well as put a name on most of the faces. Too many writers write only about the officers and warrant officers, while there's a whole crew it'd be a pity to disregard! Anyway, I had to get Izzy in – he's too fun a character to miss, and besides I needed a "swift means of transportation" for Evy, Ardeth and Alex!

Well, everybody, see you next chapter:o) They are in danger of coming much more slowly, seeing as I haven't written those yet, and I've got a whole bunch of nasty exams and work to do before the end of the year like a Sword of Damocles above my exposed frail neck :P

Much of love,

Bel :o)


	13. A Woman Left Lonely

**Author's Notes:** Hello there! Real Life is a torture, I haven't watched TM or TMR in months and parents' pressure about exams and whatnot has never been higher, but I'm still cheerful :o) At least the weather's beautiful, my birthday was exactly 2 weeks ago and my boyfriend has given me the 1st season DVD of _Excel Saga_, a very, very warped manga. I'm 23 and I'm in love, what could I ask more :D Anyway, a very short chapter, with a title courtesy of Janis Joplin. Hope you'll like :o)

_Disclaimer: George Lucas owns everything _Star Wars_ and the last instalment did meet with expectations, and – but I'm not writing about Star Wars :o) Well, Steve Sommers created most of the characters you'll read about in this chapter (and the next ones), but I went and had fun and decided that Charles Hamilton would cause the end of the world. Will Our Heroes be able to stop him? Read on to find out… :D I _am_ a bit wacky._

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM **

_**Chapter 13: A Woman Left Lonely**_

The heat had been growing steadily for a few hours now. Despite the fact that the room she was kept in was in a sort of basement, with no other light than the small window that gave onto what she thought was a sunlit corridor, Elizabeth Ferguson was starting to feel very uncomfortable. These were always the hours in the day where she regretted the most her cool, green Dorset, where the dog days of summer were hot enough to enjoy a nice walk across the country and, on returning home, a fresh drink. The water she was provided with here was tepid at best.

Then again, it was something to quench her thirst. If there was something she had learned in this past week and a half, it was to take what was offered and make do with it. And it was not always quite easy. Elizabeth recalled with a wince the first time she had been told that there were no sanitary installations that she could use, except for a chamber pot and a basin of hot water on the morning. At first, she had protested, arguing that in the middle of the 20th century it was an absolute scandal that a woman, even a prisoner, couldn't have access to modern facilities … But after a while, she simply couldn't wait any longer and accepted the pot, humiliating though it was to go through your business while having a man outside waiting for you to finish so that he might take it away.

And these were the bare necessities. She had not changed her clothes for a week and a half, and in addition to the physical discomfort there was also the smell. She did have a quick wash every morning, but only to put her old clothes back on. Her working suit looked now way past its best with dust and sweat, and her new stockings were laddered. Elizabeth really regretted the loss of her stockings, as it had been a gift from her husband just before he left for Egypt.

To think that that particular Thursday had begun so well. Tom had offered her the new pair with a wink and a few sweet, silly words about the best place for them being on the floor of their room, she had blushed – as always when he made remarks like that, which meant fairly often – and both had left home for work. A few hours later, he had surprised her by dropping at the telephone company during her break, to tell her he was going away to Cairo for maybe a week or two. His work at the Antique Research Department was always sending him to exotic places, Egypt in particular, so there was nothing very peculiar about this.

What was more 'peculiar', though, was the long dark-coloured car – Elizabeth had always been incapable of telling this make of car from that – that had stopped along the pavement as she walked home to ask her the directions to Bournemouth just under a road sign that pointed to exactly the same town. Nevertheless, she had approached and answered politely, especially as the gentleman behind the wheel had been very civil. She didn't know what had happened just afterwards – the only thing that stuck in her mind was a violent, dizzying smell that reminded her of hospitals. When she had woken up, she had felt weak and sick from that smell and the rolling of a boat on a reasonably small swell, petrified with fear and praying that she had remembered to turn off the gas.

Elizabeth had no idea where she was kept, except that it was in Egypt – in Cairo, more precisely, thanks to the newspaper her captors gave her on the day of her arrival to hold while they took a picture. It was the Saturday 18th edition; so if she referred to the light in the corridor to count the days, it was now Tuesday 28th, and she had talked with the American – Mr O'Connell – last Saturday. Keeping track of time was so difficult when you didn't have your usual everyday habits to rely on.

This conversation had been so strange … It had really left her with a sense of shock. All she knew before it was that Tom had something to do that he was quite likely to refuse, and that the stakes were so high she had been brought here as a guarantee – at least, that was what Elizabeth had been told. And during a week, she had wondered what could be at stake, and how much Tom could be involved. The story the American had told her did answer these questions, but in such an unbelievable way that she almost refused that what he had said could be true. How could a simple diamond, big though it was, be a danger to the world? If the Research Department wanted it so badly, why couldn't they just buy it from that museum? And – and this was the question that haunted her most – what _exactly_ was the nature of Tom's job? What job could force a man to play such a dirty trick to an old friend?

Because this Mr O'Connell had really sounded angry, almost hurt. Elizabeth herself could hardly believe that, because of Tom, this man had been kidnapped, parted from his wife and his son. Being unable to have children herself, this seemed to her the cruellest thing that could happen to somebody. But what she really had trouble believing was that her husband, her Tom, had played an active part in what looked like a villainous theft and helped to imprison a friend. Especially Jonathan Carnahan.

Those two … Elizabeth couldn't help a smile at the thought of the pair as they were in university, what seemed like ages ago. They really had been close – as close as two school friends can be. Years had passed since, and while Tom had become her closest friend to gradually evolve into something much more intimate, they had passed without them hearing about her former 'suitor'. He and his sister Evelyn had moved to Egypt after the latter had finished her studies, and Elizabeth had no idea when they had come back to England – if they had come back at all, since from what she remembered of her conversation with Mr O'Connell, their ten-year-old boy was also here in Egypt.

How many times had she heard the expression 'Those were the days' from some old toothless granny recalling the golden times of her youth … However, now Elizabeth could truly comprehend what such people meant. She was perfectly happy with Tom, the both of them earned a living of their own quite decently and she loved their home; but life was just not as exciting as it had been during her university years. It seemed to her she had the secret to enjoy even the simple fact of being alive, back then; a million thoughts could come into her mind at the same time, including some that made her blush. She hadn't quite fitted in the canons of female fashion of the time – the girls who did were generally very aware of it – so her number of regular 'escorts' had been very restrained.

In fact, the only two boys more or less her age who had looked at her – really _looked_ at her – were the two students competing for the worst reputation in their own university. Knowing this had put her a bit on her guard, until her cousin Arthur had told her that they were really decent lads after all. They were both funny, both broadly bragged of deeds and feats of variable morality, but boy, had they made her feel alive!

Elizabeth shook her head. Those were the days, indeed, but it was no good dwelling on them and regret. She had spent two days turning over the conversation with Mr O'Connell in her mind – and regretting that she had slept so soundly the evening before, although, come to think of it, her afternoon tea had had something of a strange taste to it – and it had been in vain. She still had no idea as to what exactly was going on, and especially _why_.

But from this disheartening situation was gradually following a sort of determination such as she had never known before. This just couldn't last anymore. She was reaching her breaking point, and the patience that was one of her major traits was wearing off slowly but surely. Especially when she thought of Tom – lies or not, Elizabeth knew her husband, and she also knew that the people who hadn't hesitated to kidnap her would probably stop at nothing to get what they wanted, and Tom had principles. He was a good man, and she had had all the time in the world to worry about what they might do to him – or her – if things went awry. Problem was, she just could not see a way out.

Unless …

Footsteps began to sound in the corridor, amplified by the length, just as an idea began to take shape in her mind.

This was madness. There was no way she could carry it off. She was no heroine, and her courage had strict limits. Then again … Elizabeth could see no other way out, and even if the idea seemed downright crazy, she knew she really had to try something, for the sake of the husband she loved as well as an old friend's.

The sound of footfalls was coming closer. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and collapsed on the ground, moaning slightly and clasping her stomach, and overall trying to look as if she was in great pain.

From her spot on the ground, she heard the clinking sound of keys and the creaking of a lock, and then saw a pair of big feet almost running at her and a body dropping in a crouching position.

"Shit," she heard, muttered between clenched teeth. "Er … Ma'am? Are you all right?"

"Don't – know," she groaned, hoping fervently that the newcomer would buy it, all the while looking for the weapon he was bound to have somewhere. "Hurts …"

"Where?" he asked with surprising gentleness, a hand on her shoulder and the other on the ground for support. She shook his hand off with the pretence of a coughing fit she managed to pull off despite her shaky breathing.

"Do you want me to call somebody? A doctor?" he insisted with the same awkward sweetness that made her think he must be rather young. She shook her head, trying to calm the pounding of her heart in her chest, and as she looked up her breath caught in her throat. There it was. A big-looking gun – at least to Elizabeth, who had never seen a firearm in her entire life – was hanging rather loosely from a holster under his jacket, just inches from her!

She pushed on her elbows as though to get up right away, and he did exactly what she hoped he would do. He put both his hands on her shoulders – "Whoa, easy there" – and doing this, uncovered the gun, which tipped to Elizabeth's hand as if it wanted to jump out of its holster. Which was more or less what happened.

Faster than she had thought she would be, Elizabeth stood up in front of the man, his revolver in her hands that felt too small for it. He just goggled at her, as though he had yet to grasp the reality of the situation.

"Stand up," she said, recalling everything that had happened in this past week for her voice to sound appropriately cold. "And step back."

The man was obviously younger than her, she could see it now – probably by a good five or ten years – and was staring at her with wide eyes. The flaming red curly hair flying around his freckled face could almost make him look friendly. He did what he was told, apparently too shell-shocked to do otherwise. But Elizabeth didn't abandon her wariness; nor did her grip on the gun loosen one bit.

"What's your name?" she asked, still as coolly. The young man's mouth moved wordlessly for a second, then he answered, "Stephens. Bill Stephens."

"Well, then, Mr Stephens," she said, speaking slowly and detaching each syllable, "I have a question I'd like you to answer."

"S– sure," Bill Stephens stammered, still bemused. "What is it?"

Elizabeth came one step closer, trying to keep her hands from shaking, and locking her eyes onto his, she asked quietly, "_Where is my husband?_"

* * *

It had been obvious, from the moment Evelyn saw Ardeth come back from the Medjai camp, that everything had not happened quite the way he had planned it. His eyes were flashing furiously and a dark frown was on his face as he sat in a corner of the dirigible pouring over maps and thinking hard, and it had been that way ever since the middle of the night. Evy wondered, as she sipped her morning tea, if he had even slept a wink at all.

To be honest, she had had a faint, wild hope to see him come back with Rick and Jonathan trailing behind, tired and worn perhaps, but alive and unscathed. So it had been something of a disappointment, especially for Alex, who had kept watch until he just could not stay awake any longer. The look on his face as he woke up to find the dirigible still moving and no Dad or Uncle Jon in sight had torn Evelyn's heart – particularly since he fought hard to keep a stiff upper lip, and it was terrible to see in his still-childish face. Her boy was only ten, for God's sake. He shouldn't have to bear things like that.

Right now, he was leaning on his elbows at the rail, staring at the great flat yellow dunes moving along under the dirigible. She couldn't see his face, but she could tell that the enduring situation was nerve-racking for him. It was bad enough for her.

She walked over and sat quietly beside him. His ruffled blond hair, darker than it had been when he was younger, flew into his face, reminding Evelyn of his father's whenever a slight breeze stirred.

"Are you all right?" she whispered, her heart in her throat. Alex gave a slight nod.

"Yeah." He said that so absent-mindedly he could as well have uttered 'no'. Evy didn't budge. She knew there would come a moment when he would speak up. Alex had no patience at all for uncomfortable silences.

Sure enough, she was proved right after a short while.

"Mum, what the heck _did_ happen down there? I would've asked Ardeth, but he looks like a dog who's just been stolen a bone from."

She couldn't help a smile at the mental image. "Ardeth doesn't bite, you know."

"Have you _looked_ at him?"

"All right, you do have a point." Evelyn's eyes returned to staring at the dunes as if of their own accord. She loved this landscape so dearly it really felt like an integral part of herself. "Well, it seems that Ardeth and the Medjai had gone to retrieve both the Diamond of Ahm Shere _and_ your dad and uncle, but that they failed in that. And they lost a few men in the scuffle."

Alex's head swivelled round in a flash, and he looked very white all of a sudden. "Dad and Uncle Jon were all right though, weren't they?"

Evy thought about what Ardeth had told her of the confrontation with Hamilton, and chose to cut a clear version of the facts. "Yes, dear, don't worry. The problem is, for that man, that Hamilton, they are also hostages on top of having information, and he doesn't seem too keen on letting go of his hostages so easily."

"Oh." Alex seemed to relax slightly. "Still, I wish this nutcase would've chosen somebody else for 'information'." His lips thinned into what would have looked like a pout, were it not for the set, serious expression of his round blue eyes. "I wish Uncle Jon hadn't bumped into Mr Ferguson the other day. I wish we hadn't come to Egypt at all, even."

Evelyn gave a small sigh, refraining from taking him in her arms, only taking the liberty to tuck tenderly a blond lock behind his pink round ear. "Things just don't work like that, sweetheart. There are some things I wish never happened, but they did … And sometimes, some good can even come from the bad. I met your father because I wanted to go to Hamunaptra, and when I – accidentally – raised Imhotep, a lot of terrible things happened – people died – it looked like the end of the world. But in the end, things got better. Not exactly like they were before – people had died, and we couldn't do anything about it –"

"Oh, c'mon, you had the Book of the Dead, didn't you, Mum?" Evy sensed the battle was half-won when Alex risked a grin. She smiled.

"We didn't, Imhotep did – and at that time we had done everything to bury him very, very deep in the sand. No, my point is, when bad things happen, they don't last for ever. And if you look hard enough – God knows that sometimes, you've got to look _really_ hard – you can find that some good comes from it. Has it ever occurred to you that you wouldn't even be there if it hadn't been for Imhotep?"

The boy made a curious face, something halfway between thoughtful and disgusted, and turned to his mother to look her in the eye. "Well," he finally said, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, "I must remember to thank him next time, for sure."

She gave him a bright, genuine smile, and put an arm around him to hold him close. Surprisingly enough, Alex made no move out of the embrace and seemed content to let his mum cuddle him. They watched the horizon for a little while, until Alex grumbled, "Anyway, whatever good or bad comes from this whole nasty business, I hope for sure it won't be a little sister."

Evelyn gave a hearty laugh this time, and she was almost certain to have heard a slight chuckle behind her from Ardeth's corner.

* * *

Short, wasn't it? I'm currently working on the 14th, and hopefully it will be longer – I'm reaching the last third of the story, and it's the hardest part to write! Of course, there's also plenty of RL intrusions – assignments, exams, the thesis to end before mid-June, finding a new flat for next year… It's becoming hard to write at all :o(

But reviews such as I've received for the last chapter of FTaH and for _A Break From Normality_ are such a blessing that I just can't imagine abandoning this story! Thank you, people :o)

_**Poppylena:**_ Thanks for the kind words. When I first finished this story I thought it was so lame that I'd never post it here – fortunately, I've had two beta-readers who did a wonderful job with corrections and trimmings, and now it's fairly decent ;o)

_**Silent Train Conductor:**_ Thank you:o) I always greatly appreciate a word from you, and you're always welcome to drop by, if only for _one_ word :D About Jonathan hesitating… you know, at that point it was one of the rare (too rare!) occurrences where the story seems to be writing itself on its own. My idea is, in TMR both shooters (Evy and Jon) were in the middle of the action, almost no time to think, completely relying on instincts. In a nutshell, "Use the Force" :D But when you've got time to think about what might happen if you fail – and Jon had plenty of time in the previous chapter – you're a lot less sure of the accuracy of your aim. That's exactly the problem with Jon: he's not self-confident enough. Doubt is vital if you want to evolve in life, or even survive (because you eventually don't if you don't take a good look at yourself from time to time), but you've got to be at least a little sure of yourself sometimes. And this (not only as an author, but also as a person) I can totally relate to. Sometimes courage is doing something even when you're not sure of the result, and I lack this sort of courage. For all that is said of Jon's faults (and he has a number of them, just like everybody else :o), he has his own kind of courage.

Whoa, that was almost an essay :D Yes, about M&C – I admit I was pretty miffed at first (okay, still am :D), not because of the actual death, but because of the total lack of… acknowledgement. I mean, all we get is one line a few pages afterwards and two lines in the next book, for someone we know since the first book, whom Stephen taught to read (we don't see his reaction at all – but then, poor soul, he's already badly shaken by the Diana thing)… I had this childish reaction, you know, "That's not fair". Well. At least Jack and Stephen are alive at the end of _21_ – I think :S

_**Williz:**_ Thank you! What I had in mind was, if you have a sister/brother, seeing her/him dying – even if (s)he comes back to life afterwards – _was_ kind of traumatic and must have left its mark.

_**EggSalad:**_ Wow, Egg, thanks. I know it sounds pretty inane, but it's always such a joy to receive a review from you that I just don't know where to begin. Right, for starters, I'm glad that you see Jon's point of view – even after I clicked the "Update Story" on I was a little bit unsure, but then I didn't want to explain and justify at great length. I just left it to the reader's appreciation :o) Rick's "World before Self" – very well put:o) I also think that he just assumed Jon would hit and not miss; you could even say that he trusted him to. (That's what I love: Rick would trust him with his life – as a last, _last_ resort! – but never with his money :D) So now Rick's furious. And we all know how much our favourite American can he pig-headed :o)

As for imagery… yes, sometimes I have very clear pictures in my mind of the scene in question. When I write, it's halfway between theatre and cinema, because while I generally write conversations mainly (and often too long to be a film scene) and work on characters' "voices", once in a while an image comes and I just do description – hence _A Break From Normality_, the last scene in Ch.12, or even the car chase in Ch.6. Speaking of ABFN, if you want a good post-Ahm Shere story and you don't know Eve yet, check out _As Sweet As This_, although _Coming Clean_ (also post-Ahm Shere, but with a somewhat different theme) is also excellent. In fact, the only short story from Eve I like more is _Circumstantial Evidence_ (you can tell that from my page, I translated it into French :D) – but anyway, _As Sweet As This_ is cute. Oh, and a last word about the Weird Sisters: I checked the Net, and yes, it seems that they are all guys. But I might write the story all the same – I just won't post it, I guess.

_**Eris:**_ I don't think Jon is an easy person to live with, for all that I love him as a character; he might be a good friend, someone you have good times with, but I'm not sure I'd like him so much in real life. I'll do my best to write and post – but it's really not easy right now :S

_**Adele:**_ the main reason for me not to post the next chapters is because I'm not finished writing them, dear :o) Thank you very much for your kind comments, I appreciate them greatly, especially since I don't write action scenes often – I'm not used to them :o)

_**Dr. Nat:**_ Nitpicks are always welcome, especially nitpicks that have to do with local particularities. The "camel" problem is something, I think, that has to do with the fact that, in French, we call a two-lump camel "chameau" (direct translation being 'camel') and a one-lump "dromadaire" – two entirely different things. Now, as in the TM and TMR films (and their translations) they always say 'camels' and 'chameaux', not quite remembering how they looked like, I naturally assumed that they had two lumps. I didn't know one could say 'camel' as short for 'dromedary camel', and while I'm a bit miffed I made that mistake, well, it just goes to show I'm really not as fluent in English as that :o) I'll come back and correct that.

Tormenting Jonathan… I don't really know that, because the camel thing was entirely gratuitous :o) I'm joking, it was also the follow-up to TM where he really doesn't seem to like camels – I just assumed that camels didn't like him back, hence the scene in Ch.6 with yet another camel. Not to say that camels aren't nice; it's only that I frequently came to realise that if you don't like an animal, it will feel it and either avoid you or _make_ you avoid it. As for the previous chapter… well, if you take a look at my answer to Silent Train Conductor above it might make some things clearer. But your review is spot on – I guess when you're responsible, it's always easier to put your life in danger than someone else's, particularly if he's family. And yes, it was a pistol – a revolver, rather – not a rifle, although having never fired either weapon I can't tell the actual, organic difference. And a good disabling wound would also be shooting the arm that holds the weapon – unless the opponent is ambidextrous (and that's a rare case), you can disable him without killing/wounding him badly. Oh, and the brown-eyed agent was actually Tom, but when I come back I'll tweak and trim some things to that it's more obvious.

You sound like you lead an Indiana Jones-ish sort of professional life :o) I think I would very much like having you as a teacher (are you a man or a woman, by the way?) because I have a certain interest in geology, but I'm certainly not one of your students. I am a university student, but of 'Science of information and documentation' in Bordeaux, France. I like research and gathering information. Where are you teaching?

_**Leuska:**_ well, you did have a choice :o) But I understand what you mean. Sometimes I just can't stop reading despite the nasty little voice at the back of my head telling me "Get back to work, you useless loafer!" Thanks. I don't blame you for not liking Tom, but it's difficult to always make the right choices in life, especially in situations like these. And no, rushing in with guns blazing is not _always_ the best way to solve a problem :D As for him being a coward, I don't know… does being afraid sometimes make you a coward? Does making a few bad choices ultimately make you a bad person for all life? Now that's the question, isn't it :o) I like fictional characters for their qualities, but also for their faults – that's what make them interesting, and funny. But you're free to like and dislike anyone :o) As for mushy stuff, I'm afraid I just don't have the instruction leaflet for that. I can put a bit of mush in scenes, but that's about it – my skills don't go any further. Partially because Rick and Evy are not physically together much in the story, but also because all I can do is trying to show how much they miss one another. You'll have to wait till they're reunited :o)

_**Cookie044:**_ Thanks :o) I hope you enjoyed this chapter, even if it didn't have Rick and Jon in it!

Much of love, everyone,

Bel :o)


	14. Nowhere To Run

**Author's notes:** well, there you go – an all boys chapter! Sorry for the delay, but holidays turned out to be busy and not really holidays – and now I've just learned I might not get my thesis this year after all. And boy, will this year be busy – I hope I get time to write. Anyway, hope you enjoy this one – I was a little bit disappointed, but in the end I think it could be worse. The chapter title – that one was _so_ hard to find! – is based on a song by Martha Reeves and the Vandellas and it pretty much describes the pickle our boys are in :o)

Also I would like to send heartfelt thoughts to those in Louisiana and Texas who lost someone to the hurricanes. After the tsunami last winter, it seems that 2005 is pretty much an '_annus horribilis_' as far as nature is concerned. We can only hope it got worse before it gets better.

_Disclaimer: After 13 chapters, it's hard to come up with something original in a disclaimer – it's washed-out, whether this means something or not. Anyways, Steve Sommers created all the characters/situations featured in The Mummy and The Mummy Returns (and did a darn great job of it). But I own (if you want to put it this way) the characters of Tom Ferguson, Charles Hamilton, that blighter Bane (I dare you to find him a nice, complicated elaborate first name :P ) and a couple of other characters. Oh, and Jon's camel, too. Maybe I should give him a name someday as well._

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

_**Chapter 14: Nowhere to Run**_

Night settled fast on the Egyptian desert. The sundown had been long, colourful and warm, with just the right amount of slight breeze to cool down the air to be pleasant before the long cold of the night. The ground beneath Rick's feet was still hot, but it was gradually getting cooler, too; enough for him to feel it even through the soles of his thick shoes. Although, for the moment, only his heels were on the ground as he lay flat on his back with his hands under his head, watching the sky grow darker.

Even with nothing but the immensity of clear night sky in front of him, this was one of the only times when Rick had felt so trapped. He had his back to the wall, and each time he tried to think up a way to get himself out of this mess, it was as if he came up against yet another wall. His range of choices was certainly restricted, and being able to do nothing but lying there and wait for the sun to rise again was a situation he did not like one bit.

The breeze threw his hair into his eyes, and he brushed it away mechanically. It immediately brought to his mind the way Evy's dark locks of hair got into her own eyes as soon as the slightest wind stirred, their way of curling around her lovely face, and her utter failure each time she tried to tie all of them up into a bun or a plait. Even for the first years that he had known her, when she wore her hair up almost all the time, smallish curls always fell on each side of her face no matter what. To an outsider, it broke a little with the image of the prim, well-behaved English Rose, especially when her lips parted into a smile, and her eyes began to sparkle. Rick had never seen anyone's eyes sparkle before like Evy's did. This made her look truly mischievous, and, unfortunately for him most of the time, utterly irresistible.

And he missed her. Boy, had he had time to reflect about how much he missed her. He missed her laugh, he missed the touch of her light hand, the scent of her hair, the way she sounded adorable even when she sang off-key, the dangerous glint that lit up in her bright eyes whenever she had an idea that could, in Rick's opinion anyway, lead to disaster, the warmth of her skin, the way her lips felt so soft when she was drowsy with sleep …

He shifted slightly on his spot on the sand, breaking off his line of thought – it was getting uncomfortable. His gaze left the sky to glance at his right, falling on one of the fires a couple of feet away and the broad figure of Ferguson sitting behind it with a steaming cup of coffee – or tea, probably – in his hands, looking thoughtful and unhappy. It occurred to Rick that he, too, must be missing his wife, and worrying about her like mad. At least Evy was free, although Rick was pretty sure that she was probably moving heaven and earth right now to find him and Jonathan. He was just glad that she hadn't taken part in the scuffle the evening before – she would have been capable of joining in, although perhaps she would not have considered such a venture very stealthy. Waltzing in with all guns blazing was more Rick's style. Then again, he had been a very bad influence on her in that matter.

From his place on the ground, Rick saw Jonathan walk to the fire a little stiffly and sit beside it, warming his hands by the flames. The Englishman made no sign that he had seen him at all, and Rick made no move to get up and come closer to the fire as well. His anger had abated reasonably – as reasonably as it could have in twenty-four hours – but he still didn't get it. He had had the whole day to think about it, but he still just didn't get it. Jonathan had proved before that he was no bad hand at shooting – far from it. He had a sharp eye and a good aim. Hamilton was a perfect target, he could _not_ have missed it. So why the hell hadn't he shot when he had the occasion?

The wind shifted, and Rick became aware that the two Englishmen were talking in a low voice.

"… now I understand Bane's black eye and why he's been glaring at you all day. And when did you finally find your camel?" he heard Ferguson ask quietly.

"Just before dawn – completely unscathed under the cloth of a tent that had collapsed. Scurried away to save its neck, it had. Can't say I blame it, though … That's what any sane beast or bloke should do in this situation."

"So now he's not a 'stupid, filthy useless bugger' anymore?"

"He's still a filthy, useless bugger. But he's not stupid, I'll grant you that."

Rick heard a low chuckle from Ferguson, then Jonathan's quiet voice again, after a short silence.

"So, perhaps now you'll tell me exactly who you went to see to 'pass the word'?"

"Yeah, now that there isn't anyone around close enough to hear …" Ferguson looked about cautiously. Rick reflected that, three or four days ago, he would have thought the guy was being paranoid. And doing a bad job of it. "All right, but you must promise me not to tell anybody – this is serious business."

"Right, I forgot that we're all only really just playing a big cricket game here."

"_Jon …_"

"All right, all right, I promise, and I'll shut up and listen then."

"The High Priest of Osiris."

There was a beat. When Rick risked an almost open glance at the two Englishmen, he saw that Jonathan was sitting very still, a suspicious sort of 'Uh?' expression on his face. Ferguson sipped a bit from his cup.

This was getting interesting. Rick strained his ears to understand everything he could from his spot.

"Would you care to elaborate?" Jonathan finally asked, his voice thankfully no louder than it had been. Ferguson shrugged.

"I've done some – research, asked some people, and I picked up the trail the afternoon before we left Giza. Strange old bloke, very imposing – made stuff I still can't explain, like a little chat with a ghost on the wall … His coffee was the best I'd ever drunk, by the way, hands down."

"Are you playing the bloody fool on purpose?"

"You're not very patient." There was wry humour in Ferguson's voice. "Well, I asked him to warn your sister – tell her that O'Connell and you are fine and all that – so that she would go to the Medjai, because they could give a bit of a hand in this kind of situation, I'd been told."

So that's why Ardeth and his buddies had been so quick to find them. They simply knew where to look. _Good initiative of Ferguson's, that._

"Well," came Jonathan's voice after another short silence, "at least they know as much as we do now."

Rick saw Ferguson shake his head. The flickering light of the fire in front of him cast shadows on his face, making him look quite grim.

"No, Jon – they know a bit more than us – than Hamilton, anyway. Remember what he said about the army of Anubis?"

"What, that any mortal who wakes up this army can control it as long as he claims it tomorrow at midnight?"

"Seems that he was a bit wrong concerning the 'any mortal can control it' part."

It seemed to Rick that he sank a little deeper in a sand that felt definitely cooler. _Just what we need. Not only have we got a mad megalomaniac who wants to wipe a whole country off the map, but his plan is based on fairy tales and hokum – _half-false_ fairy tales and hokum, at that. Just great._

"Let me guess." Jonathan's voice was lower. He sounded kind of tired. "If _he_ tries to wake up the army of Anubis, it will wipe out the world."

"How did you know?"

_That's always the story. I guess we're just lucky that way._

"Third time, remember? I'm starting to know how it goes."

Rick went back to staring at the darkening sky. Except for the now familiar sinking feeling into his stomach that meant the end of the world in a few days, he felt oddly normal. The beat of his heart hadn't even changed.

He continued to listen, albeit idly, as Ferguson detailed his interview with the High Priest. If, somehow, they could get Hamilton tied up in a bundle and gagged and just wait for the moon – or lack thereof – to rise, it would be just perfect. Then again, perhaps it might take more persuasion for agents whom their boss scared out of their wits to commit such a rebellion. Maybe if they managed to convince them that they were all going to die if Hamilton succeeded …

"What the hell do you mean, 'claiming Ahm Shere'?"

The edge in Jonathan's low voice brought Rick's attention to the conversation around the campfire a few feet away.

"Just that, tomorrow at midnight, the pyramid will be destroyed."

"_How?_"

"No idea. I suppose it'll sink into the ground, or cave in or something."

Rick closed his eyes, and, to his own great surprise, found himself fighting a rising urge to laugh – a dry, mirthless laugh. It wasn't enough that what Hamilton was planning to do in the pyramid would probably cause the end of all humanity. He had to have it planned for the exact moment nobody should _be_ inside the damn pyramid in the first place.

Ridiculous as it sounded, the idea that had popped up into his mind about tying up Hamilton until danger had passed crept back into his mind and wouldn't leave. It was so very tempting. But it was also completely useless with all those cronies around the guy – he would be freed in no time. Although, come to think of it … perhaps it would be enough to slow them down a bit.

Without raising his voice much, Rick said, without really looking at the two Englishmen near the fire, "How long before we're at Ahm Shere, do you think?"

Ferguson jumped, and Jonathan's head swivelled round in his direction. "How much have you heard?" Ferguson whispered, sounding half scared and half angry.

"Pretty much everything from Anubis' army up to now. Don't worry, I'm not going to shout around about your High Priest of Whatever. So," Rick said, sitting up on his elbows to face the two of them, "how long?"

The Liverpudlian gulped, then paused to think. Rick noticed that, while Jonathan wasn't quite avoiding his eyes, he wasn't exactly meeting them, either.

"I've heard Cameron say we can be there by teatime tomorrow, but considering the directions we've been given, I'd say rather tomorrow by night. Camels don't go that fast, and there's quite a lot of things to carry 'round. Why, what are you thinking about?"

"Well," Rick said slowly, "all we need is a few hours of delay, right?"

"And how do you suggest we create this 'delay'?" asked Jonathan, more quietly than Ferguson. Rick got up from the ground and went to sit down next to the fire. The sky had almost reached its night-black hue, and darkness had settled around them.

"Actually," he said in a low voice once he was settled, "I was thinking about getting Hamilton and store him someplace till tomorrow, but I guess blowing stuff up would do the trick just as well. Any kind of diversion might work." The truck, for instance, would be a good target – they put all the tents and everything else in it during the day and it held enough gas to make a nice big bonfire.

There was a beat, during which the two others' eyes went very round and slightly bulging. While Ferguson still stared at him wordlessly, Jonathan shook his head. "You're mental. They'd never let us do something like that."

"Because you think I'm gonna ask their permission?" Rick retorted. "At least _I_ can grab the opportunity when I see it!"

"All right, I see your point," Ferguson said quickly, before Jonathan, whose eyes flashed angrily for a second, could say anything. "But what kind of diversion? How do you suppose we'd get hold of Hamilton without anybody seeing us?"

Rick thought for a minute, then nodded.

"OK, forget Hamilton – but we've got to do something. We gotta slow them down."

"I second that," muttered Ferguson. "I'd hate to be in that bloody pyramid when it crumbles." Rick saw his eyes dart to the truck parked some way off from the campfires. Apparently he had more or less the same idea. It was also true that there weren't that many things that could blow up in the camp.

_Question is, how the hell are we going to get there at all?_

"If I may venture a suggestion …"

Jonathan's low voice startled Rick out of his musings. The American glanced at his brother-in-law from the corner of his eye with a frown.

"Look, if you don't wanna be a part of it, don't both–"

"It's not _that_," Jonathan snapped, sounding miffed. He wasn't looking at them. Rick followed his gaze to the camels who were tethered nearby. "I might have an idea."

* * *

Never, in Jonathan's memory of plans that were bound to fail dismally – and, admittedly, his own record was an unusually large one – had he laid the foundations of a plan that was _so obviously_ bound to fail dismally. 

First, camels. There was the fact that camels were involved, and the fact that they had to behave accordingly to plan, when he knew from experience that the bloody beasts never behaved accordingly to any plan but their own.

Second, the idea of Tom making something up to create a diversion from whoever would be guarding the truck was preposterous. If the bloke was anything, it was honest. Truthfully, painfully honest – though not in all possible meanings of the word, of course. He was just completely incapable of telling a decent lie with a minimum of self-control. Then again, Jonathan thought with a snicker, Tom had been the one to succeed in almost fooling Evy, hands down the most suspicious person he knew, into believe everything he'd said – and had definitely succeeded as far as Jonathan himself was concerned. It definitely seemed that life as a spy had changed some things he knew for sure about his old friend. So yes, maybe this second point was not as worrying as the others.

But the worst – the tiny point in the plan that made Jonathan cringe and curse himself for thinking of it in the first place – was that _he_ was going to make the thing explode. Without anybody's help. All by himself. And that scared him to death. While he certainly knew a thing or two about the workings of an automobile – enough to make one run without really needing the appropriate keys, for example – the idea of an 'internal combustion engine' blowing to pieces didn't exactly strike him as a particularly clever thing to stand near to. Especially when he was the one who would see to it that the thing blew up, since Rick – _bloody Americans always _have_ to blow something up, don't they!_ – would be busy with the camels.

Which brought him back to the first problem. How on earth do you make camels understand that orders are urgent and vital to a plan? Beastly cretins couldn't even follow a lead decently, anyway.

This particular point was his reason for his presence a few feet from the truck. So far, Rick had been the only one in their group of three who had had any sort of authority over his camel. He was thus altogether suited for the mission of herding the camels out of the makeshift paddock, and then scatter them to make the biggest mess possible. As for Tom, well, somebody had to distract whoever was doing the guarding and not look especially suspicious in the process.

That left Jonathan with nothing but the truck thing. And he didn't exactly find it funny.

Agents had taken the food out of the truck and were currently, for the most part, sitting around campfires in little groups of six or seven. The tents and all the gear to set them up were still stored in the truck, and three agents were standing between it and the car, talking in low voices and looking like unnaturally stiff-backed guard dogs. Jonathan couldn't help a somewhat unkind satisfied feeling at seeing that he was not the only one not to appreciate camel-back trekking.

There was a nip in the air, and Jonathan found himself glancing longingly at the nearest fire. It was sparkling merrily a few feet away, drawing some agents to it like moths to a lamp and overall looking very welcoming indeed. Neither Rick nor Tom was anywhere to be seen – each was probably at his own appointed post, waiting for his time to act. Which, as Jonathan realised by peering at his watch in what little light he could get, was drawing nearer.

The sound of footfalls and low voices brought his attention back to the three men standing nearby, and he saw that a fourth had just joined them – the outline of Tom's sandy hair had an odd reddish look about it with the light of the fire behind him.

"Good evening."

"Evening, Ferguson."

The third agent said nothing, but gave a slight nod. His sharp-featured face, hidden in shadows, was visible only for a second as he struck a match to light his cigarette.

Tom edged closer, his hands in his pockets.

"What are you at, Tom?" asked the first, a burly-looking fellow who stood easily a head or two taller than Tommy.

"Oh, nothing in particular, Stubb," Tom answered, and Jonathan rolled his eyes at the line. At least he didn't look too conspicuous – in fact, he just looked tired. "Just wondering what I'm doing here, that's all. I'm stiff, I'm cold, and I miss my wife."

"Ah, come on, Ferguson," said the second man. He had a low-pitched, gravely sort of voice that was surprising coming from a bloke so short. "We're all suffering here – collectively. Now personally, I wouldn't say no to a shower and a shag and a pint into the bargain, but we can't always get what we want, can we?"

"Yeah, Cameron, I suppose you're right. But still, Hamilton had no right to kidnap me wife and use her as bloody leverage. No right at all."

"I don't say what he did wasn't dirty, mate – it was, I'll grant you that," the burly one, Stubb, piped up. "But it was _orders_."

"No, it wasn't!" Tom protested, louder. Jonathan's ears pricked up in spite of himself. He was supposed to focus his attention on the camel paddock Rick would unlock any minute now – as soon as he made sure Tom's little diversion was working – but diversion or not, this was getting really interesting. "Hamilton told me just that, when I went to see the prisoners back in Giza. He acted on nobody's orders but his own."

"_What_ are you suggesting, then, Ferguson?" the third asked in a hissing sort of voice, speaking for the first time. "That our superior is using us for his own interest and is a traitor to his country?"

There was a heavy silence, then Tom said, rather coldly, "I don't know. He intends to raise the fabled Army of Anubis to wipe out Germany – its leader _and_ its population. What do you think? Is that enough to make him a traitor?"

Jonathan was finding it very hard to keep his eye on the paddock and his ears on the ongoing conversation. What on earth was Tom trying to do? Surely not turning them over? Hamilton would probably get him arrested in no time if words reached his ears about Tom revealing his little plans and advocating mutiny. And then, things would get _really_ complicated … If not downright nasty.

He watched the three agents stare at Tom, looking dumbstruck. _That's right,_ he thought, peering at them, almost willing this particular thought to enter their minds, _you're not believing him. You're goody-goody secret bloody agents who do what they're told and there's nothing for it. Bloke just misses his wife, he's just making up stories … please don't believe him …_

What was taking Rick so long?

And then, everything happened very fast. The short man named Cameron opened his mouth, said, "Well –" and a merry chorus of roars, bleats and occasional yelps interrupted him. From his place on the ground, Jonathan allowed himself two seconds of glee as he watched the whole disbanding herd of camels galloping past the four agents.

The trio plus Tom stood there for a short moment, mouths hanging open, before taking off to try to catch the straying camels. Other people were running after the animals, and one of them called out for any who could to lend a hand – that's when Jonathan understood where the yelps had come from: getting one's foot stepped on by a camel was obviously very painful. Wondering if the camel who had done the stepping had been his own reluctant one – and he had a hunch it was – he scrambled up and disappeared under the truck.

There was almost no light at all under that great big mass, and Jonathan spent a little while blinking in the dark and trying to get his bearings. When he could finally make out enough to know where he was and spot his target, he crawled in the sand, silently cursing the cold, sticky grains already filling his sleeves and his pockets – and wincing at the sickening smell of petrol right above him that meant he was at his own appointed post. Right under the petrol tank of the truck. Biting his lip in some apprehension, he took out of his pocket the small knife Tom had unearthed for this purpose and began to drill the tank.

It seemed to take hours, and his arm was growing somewhat lifeless in the end, but it worked, somehow.

Jonathan did not really know how much petrol it would take to make the whole thing explode when on fire – and, frankly, he really wasn't contemplating striking a match under that truck to check. So he dug a hole in the sand, and, seeing petrol fill it at an alarming speed, crawled back and dug a narrow trench on his way back to behind the truck.

Of course emerging from under a truck covered in soot and sand was not the least inconspicuous appearance Jonathan could think of, but, incredibly, nobody seemed to notice him as he bent quickly to strike the match and set fire to the thick, stinking dark liquid that was reaching his feet. He scampered off without further ado, grinning like an idiot from the relief – and, admittedly, from having perfectly succeeded in something, seemingly.

What could go wrong at that point?

Well, something could, it appeared, as nothing happened and the truck still stood there. There wasn't even a single spark.

Jonathan felt his blood drain from his face as his eyes met Rick's, who was coming back from the paddock and looked – surprised? Suspicious? Jonathan couldn't really tell from afar. He spun on the spot and headed back toward the truck, frowning. Surely something must have got in the way … It was probably the –

He didn't even have time to finish his thought. The intense light hit his eyes before the enormous bang of the explosion reached his ears, and the blast caught him head on.

* * *

Tom had finally recaptured his own camel, and he was quite happy with himself to have recognised the animal before Bane, who was dangerously close, could get his hands on him. Most of his fellow agents were still struggling with the straying camels. Tom did not know what O'Connell had done to frighten them so badly, but it had worked – unless the beasts were unnaturally good actors, and Tom, while not really disliking camels as much as Jon did, was realistic enough to know they weren't. 

His camel gave a small roar toward the left, and looking over his shoulder Tom saw O'Connell finishing tying up his own camel a few feet away. When the American spotted him, he jerked his chin toward the truck – from which he stood at reasonable distance – with a slight grin that revealed some of his remarkably sharp-looking teeth. It was something Tom had noticed the first time he'd seen O'Connell grin. The man had an impossible number of teeth in his jaw.

The Liverpudlian looked up from tying up his camel to see Jonathan step from behind the truck and take cover, dusting himself off energetically but looking overall pleased with himself. When nothing happened, however, he stopped, frowned, and strode back to the truck. Tom was on the verge of asking O'Connell something about combustion engines when everything exploded and he dove into the sand as a pure knee-jerk reflex.

The night seemed even darker for a second with the stark contrast of the glare, neither yellow nor red, that filled Tom's horizon for a second or two before he squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands on his head for protection. There was a snap and a strangled camel's roar drifting away behind him, meaning that his faithful mount had broken free out of sheer terror. And then complete silence.

Tom lifted his face from the sand and opened bemused eyes to discover a thick, heavy-looking black cloud of smoke hanging in mid-air where the truck had stood a moment before. There was a ringing silence, and an overwhelming smell of petrol, steel and plastic burning – it was so heavy that Tom's head swam for a second as he wobbled back to his feet, waving the smoke away and refraining from coughing.

Sounds began to break in, and Tom realised that he had been almost completely deaf to everything for a few seconds. Agents, some still clutching camels' reins, were running from behind them to the remains of the truck – or rather, the cloud of smoke that still blocked the remains of the truck from view. And, incidentally, the wannabe arsonist who had set the whole thing on fire.

Tom's insides gave an ugly sort of lurch as he realised he had not seen Jon come out from behind the truck yet.

Beside him, O'Connell's eyes were wide open and disbelieving – and, Tom noticed, had something of an appraising look in them as the American took in the mayhem the explosion had triggered. Then the same nasty thought appeared to cross his mind as the half-grin slipped abruptly from his face and he turned to Tom with a funny look in his eyes.

They scrambled up as one and made a dart at the still glowing remains of the truck. Scattered over the black and burnt sand, those remnants gleamed a sinister orange colour that looked ugly against the wonderfully deep blue of the impossibly huge sky directly behind it. Tom almost reeled on the spot from the acrid stench of molten metal and plastic. He swallowed hard, trying not to think about what he might find among the remnants in question.

Hamilton's razor-sharp voice made him jump right out of his skin.

"What happened? Who did this?"

Tom tore his gaze from the wreck of the truck to his superior, who was striding among the campfires with a couple of agents in tow, cold fury etched across his usually blank face. He watched him walk to O'Connell and him and stop just in front of them, grey eyes glaring. O'Connell stared back down at him.

"_You …_" Hamilton snarled, and Tom almost recoiled, relieved not to be on the receiving end of that snarl. "You have something to do with this, I just _know_ it. Don't even try to deny it."

"I don't know what you're ranting about," O'Connell retorted quietly, not looking away. "I didn't go anywhere near that truck since your cronies gave me the thing they call 'stew'. You can ask 'em."

"Where were you, then, when the truck exploded?" the Englishman all but spat, and Tom couldn't help gaping slightly at his stony-faced boss' almost losing control. O'Connell looked remarkably calm – and remarkably cold, too.

"I was helpin' the others with the camels. They looked like they could do with some help."

Hamilton glowered silently at O'Connell for a couple of seconds, then leaned in for a conspiratorial harsh whisper, "I will get you for this, believe you me. I just know you're behind all this – mayhem. I will get you for this."

O'Connell's teeth gleamed in the low glow of the wreck. "Can't wait to see you try."

Hamilton must have sensed the dangerous quality of O'Connell's grim, mirthless smile. He stepped back and his cold, aloof persona snapped back into place as he turned to the other agents awaiting instructions behind him.

"If you would be so kind as to retrieve the Stan Laurel part of your comic duet act, Mr O'Connell, we will leave all that can be spared behind and ride through the night. Gentlemen, I give you twenty minutes to get ready. If luck is on our side, we should reach the Pyramid of Ahm Shere by tomorrow evening."

He straightened his jacket, and his ice-cold eyes fell on Tom, who fervently hoped the shudder that went through him at the moment was not too obvious. "If I were you, Ferguson," he breathed, and Tom's heart skipped a beat at his tone, "I would show more care as to the _company_ I keep. This could cause you troubles in the end – to you and to your lovely wife."

Tom gulped, and straightened his back as he nodded. A wave of cold went though him at the thought of what this man was implying, as well as – not for the first time – a helpless sort of fury. He squeezed his jaw shut before he could blurt out something that would threaten Lisa's safety even more, and Hamilton walked away, giving him a nasty parting look. Tom felt empty and sick, and as he turned back to what was left of the truck his heart bobbed up in his throat. If on top of all that Jon was somewhere in there …

O'Connell had turned as well, and was scanning the wreck with a hard look on his face Tom hadn't seen him wear before. His eyes hardened with each passing second as nothing moved amidst the ruined bits and pieces of the truck.

Suddenly there was an odd noise right next to them, like a strangled throat clearing, and both Liverpudlian and American whirled about sharply. Whatever had been wringing and twisting Tom's stomach since the explosion released its grip, his heart slid down to its usual place in his chest, and he could see O'Connell's shoulders sag imperceptibly. Then he felt his eyes go very round.

Jonathan was standing there, very much alive but wild-eyed, shaking, covered in soot and sand from head to toe and his hair standing on end. His blue eyes gleamed out of his sooty face with a heartfelt fury that was almost as bad as Tom remembered flinching at just before he got punched in the face in the basement of the British Consulate.

"_You_," he eventually articulated in a tone not so different from Hamilton's, pointing a badly shaking finger at O'Connell, who stood his ground stonily, his arms folded across his chest, "_you_ … you absolute, utter – that was _so_ completely – you really have no _idea_ how –"

His jumbled words seemed to tumble out of his mouth as though speech failed to describe the apparent monumental stupidity of O'Connell's idea of a diversion. After a moment he just stood there open-mouthed and still glaring, accusing finger still pointed at the American.

Tom's gaze shifted swiftly from Jon to O'Connell, whose face slowly lit up in a broad, genuine – if a bit quizzical – grin.

"Y'know," he said after a few seconds, looking a little bit more serious, "years ago when I first met you, I thought you were a boozy, careless guy in need of a proper spine."

The words took some sinking in, but in the end Jon snapped his mouth shut and glared up at O'Connell, looking even more aggravated.

"Charming," he barked. "Meaning you bloody changed your mind since?"

O'Connell took his time to answer – and Tom, realising he was enjoying it immensely, allowed himself to sag a little bit from the sheer relief to see his mate alive and swearing. The American cast his brother-in-law an appraising sort of look, then, finally, gave another huge grin of his. His round blue eyes twinkled.

"Yeah, kinda."

And O'Connell walked off cheerfully, briefly laying a hand on Jon's shoulder and lifting a small cloud of soot as he did so. Tom watched him bemusedly – Jon's eyes were still glued to the empty space where O'Connell had stood seconds before – and whirled round to try to catch his friend when Jon's knees gave way and he collapsed in a heap on the ground. He just stayed there sitting, still staring into space with an odd look that was halfway between fury and a sort of astonishment.

Tom refrained from chuckling and bent to check if Jon had come back to his very own brand of normality.

"Oh, by the way," O'Connell said as an afterthought – Tom started and looked up suddenly. The American turned to them, thus walking backwards, "you might want to –" there he gestured wiping imaginary dust off his face "– because Hamilton's not that dense. If you turn up like that, he's bound to reach some conclusions." And he left with a grin.

His was a very good point, Tom noted, and he proceeded to search his pockets for a handkerchief that might do the trick – and preferably one that he didn't care too much about, because there wasn't a square inch of Jon's face that wasn't covered in soot.

In the meantime, Jon seemed to have recovered from the blast of the explosion and the sheer shock of it – his shaking had died down, anyway. He finally blinked, and shook his head, looking still exasperated but calmer.

"Im_po_ssible. Talk about bloody diversion. I'm never pulling a stunt like that again, ever. The man is _impossible_." He moved into a more comfortable sitting position, and winced slightly. "Fact is, I'm getting a bit old for this sort of stuff, possibly."

"Possibly, Jon," Tom said with a grin, handing him the handkerchief. "None of us is getting any younger. It's been a bit long since I didn't wake up in the morning aching in various places."

Jon accepted the proffered bit of cloth with a thanks and began to wipe the soot off his face. Tom's comment got a small grin.

"Yeah, I suppose it's your lot in life if you sleep out on the ground. Still, I hope that this 'delay' thing worked and I didn't get all singed like that for nothing."

The only thing that Tom could offer there was a rather embarrassed silence. While the plan itself had gone on smoothly enough for the most part, the results had clearly not met their expectations. If anything, it had reinforced Hamilton's resolution that they should be on their way to Ahm Shere as quickly as possible.

Jon quickly deduced from Tom's silence that not everything had gone as planned, and his face fell. "Oh, don't."

"Sorry, Jon," said Tom sympathetically, "but Hamilton decided to leave all the gear behind and travel by night. He's expecting to see us on our camels and be off in – ten minutes, I guess."

Jon groaned. "Fantastic. A whole night on a bloody camel. If someone snores, I'll kill them."

Tom snorted, "I needed those hours of sleep too, but I imagine we'll have to make do without them, won't we?" He reached down to Jon, who grabbed his hand and staggered up. He swayed a little, but remained in an upright position, to his great relief it seemed.

"Thanks. You know what?" he said, taking off his jacket to shake all the soot he could from it. "When this whole mess is over and done with, I'll get you to the Sultan's Kasbah – after all, you never got to see the inside of it, did you? It's always crowded and rather seedy, but the beer's not bad and the ale's better. As good a place to get plastered as any, and I think both of us need that."

"And you'll buy the rounds?"

The idea was appealing – assuming that they _would_ see this mess over and done with, of course. Jon made a show of hesitating, but shrugged with a grin. "Yeah, all right."

Tom felt a similar grin make its way on his face. In the chaos of the past week he had almost forgotten how good it felt to have this normal a conversation with a friend. The shock and fear – brief enough, but intense – that had followed the explosion of the truck had very much calmed down by now. While the constant, cold empty feeling that never left him since he had known Lisa was held prisoner somewhere was still there, knowing that Jon and him were back on the same side was an encouraging thought.

"That's a deal, then. C'mon."

Plus, when Jon was agreeing to buy the rounds, it was rarely a bad omen.

* * *

To think that this truck thing came from a couple of lines I jotted down without knowing what it would look like on paper… Inspiration is the most fickle of muses :D Still, I hope this chapter was not too shabby. My beta reader assured me it wasn't, and when I thought twice about it there was stuff I liked well enough, but … Sometimes words just don't cooperate when you need them to :S But I like getting into Tom's head. He's fun to write :D 

Anyway, thanks for the reviews on Chapter 13 (and sorry it was so short!), some of them came at the most opportune moments and I thank you for that.

**_Leuska:_** Thanks! I promise I'll try to make the reunion memorable – at least, acceptable :o) While it's obvious that those two love one another very much (and not on a platonic level :P), I don't think I'll ever write a sex scene with Rick and Evy – or a sex scene at all. I usually tend to skip over as a reader, so I'm not really interested in writing one. I admit I prefer to leave them to the reader's imagination – and I know it can be boundless :D

**_Chitoryu:_** Thanks for the comment and the French! Incidentally, in this context 'the mummy' is translated into 'la momie', not 'maman' (this means 'mother'). Anyway, I don't have as much time as I'd like to look up stories on sorry; nevertheless, I'd very much appreciate people not using the review system as a way to plug their stories. At least do it more subtly next time :o)

**_Cookie044:_** I'm glad you enjoyed the 13th chapter – now, I can't rightfully say the R/E stuff in the beginning was just for you, but when I received your review I was glad I did write it :o) Thanks!

**_Eris86:_** Thank you very much for the support and for the nice review(s). I love it when readers tell me what they liked/didn't like instead of things like "Great" or "You suck". (Not that I've _really_ received flames like that – or else I unconsciously and very conveniently forgot it :P) I'm glad you liked the fleshing out of Elizabeth – she's a minor character, but one I like very much. She's not your adventurous type at all, hasn't ever set foot outside the south of England, but she loves her husband, and I can tell you, you haven't heard the last from her :o)

**_Dr. Nat:_** I happen to share your views on bravery, and that's why I created the Fergusons: both of them are not characters you would see in your average summer blockbuster (not that I have anything against summer films, before folk get offended :P ), and when you do, they're foils to the major characters with a fish-out-of-water kind of humour. I can't help playing on both tunes, though – I enjoy laughing at their expense, particularly Jon and Tom – but I just try to make them a bit more fleshed-out/believable than foils would be. I sincerely thank you for your comments – on the story and on my English – and I really hope that this chapter didn't disappoint you – action, like romance, is just something I can't seem to get the hang of. I drag and I procrastinate and generally swap action for description… Well :S As for Elizabeth… well, it all comes down to gamble and poker face again. Knowing her (and I should know, I created her ;), she would never use a weapon like that on another human being – but as young Mr. Stevens doesn't know that, she's certainly not going to enlighten him… And he's not sure he wants to take the risk. Anyway, thanks again:o)

**_EggSalad:_** Well, one blessing at you not realising immediately FTaH had been updated is that I got a nice, long review from you when I least expected it :o) Thanks! So you really did re-read the whole thing? Wow! How long did it take? I occasionally re-read bits and pieces of it – for continuity needs or sheer self-absorbed pleasure :P – but I don't think I re-read it entirely since I wrote chapter 9 or something. Thanks for liking Tom and Lisa – they'll be pleased :o) Elizabeth did have some reason to be mad – being stuck in a cellar with no change of clothes and just a basin will make you cranky in the mornings – but she's the epitome of the meek, faithful wife… then again, she's not :D I guess that extreme situations tend to bring extremes out of people – the best and the worst. And Elizabeth rose to the occasion.

What's a silver lining? I think I can guess from the context but I'm rather interested in the origins of expressions, and I didn't know that one. But yes, what Evy says to Alex is pretty much my own opinion on things – George Harrison's lovely "All things must pass" is a good illustration. Unfortunately, recent events in the south of the USA also came to illustrate the "God knows that sometimes, you've got to look _really_ hard (to find some good)" part. Besides, if I ever write a TM story that takes place in 1940 or after, this concept may not apply. There _are_ things you don't come out tops from :(

But I'm not saying I will, either ;o)

**_Lady Kilgorin:_** Thanks for your praise :o) If you look closely, you'll find there are many very good authors in the Mummy fandom, much better than me and who make more sense :D Try LaurieM, Marxbros, EggSalad, Eve, LadyDeb, Nacey, Miss Becky, Mommints… there's many more, but I don't have the time to make a list :o) As for the 'personal touches', I do write them, but I prefer to make them subtle and not bother the reader with them. I'm a canon defender to a fault. Which doesn't mean I don't like personal touches – when they are well done, it's a delight :o)

**_Lady Pup:_** I came back a little while ago and corrected that – Dr. Nat also mentioned the fact in her/his review – thanks for pointing it out :o) Hope you like this chapter!

That goes to the lurkers as well, of course :o)

Love, everyone!


	15. Going Down

**Author's notes:** There it is at long last! 13-page long, title courtesy of a Lou Reed song, the chapter that took me longest to write. Of course it didn't help that this year I had 2 major things going on: classes for a competitive exam that only 7 pass (I failed) and finishing a thesis on English-language books in a French public library (still haven't finished this one) – plus finding a job for this summer (waiting for answers…). Add in a crummy flat with very noisy upstairs neighbours and you've got my life for a year. I did almost no writing, little reading, and this story's reaching the part I WANT to get down pat – more than decently – that is the ending. _A priori_ there still are about 5 chapters to go before it. And yes, I do have some ideas for a sequel of sorts, but it's still very sketchy, so consider it a vague project.

But enough of that. There isn't much really going on in this chapter, but I hope you like it anyway :o)

_Disclaimer: If I had a hammer (and a lot more money) I'd hire people to build a house where I could live happily ever after writing what I want when I want to and not having to find a job to pay the rent. Of course, if I had a lot of money (and a hammer) I wouldn't have to worry about suing and trials and stuff and I could say I own The Mummy characters. But I don't have much money, I don't own The Mummy characters and while I actually _have_ a hammer, it's not much use at the moment… Forgive the rambling, it's 90° F outside (and inside) – 33° C – and I'm shutting up and on to the story now._

_:D_

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

_**Chapter 15: Going Down**_

The sun was rising far away on the left of the dirigible, and as a result the sky looked a washed-out sort of blue that, to Izzy, felt both daunting and a bit bland without any wisp of cloud to break the uniformity. Stifling a yawn, he reached to douse the light he kept overhead at night to be able to read his maps. His muscles felt sore, not at all rested from what little sleep he'd had.

_I'm gettin' a bit old for this bullshit – two nights in a row almost without sleep an' all. I'll get you for that, O'Connell, you mark my words._

He glanced behind him mechanically to check on his passengers, as he was used to every now and then. Mrs O'Connell was curled up on one of the cots, fast asleep, with only a curl or two of hair visible under the blanket; and that Medjai or what have you, Ardeth Bay, was unceremoniously slumped against the wall of the cabin, his head lolling slightly – completely out for the count as well. Around him on the floor were scattered all the other maps Izzy owned that were not in front of him around the wheel, and Izzy did not like to think of what would happen when the circumstances demanded that he ask for one of his maps back. Boy, those eyes could _glare_.

Wait. The number wasn't right. Where had the kid got to?

Just as Izzy frowned and started looking around, he found the boy sitting by the rail a few feet away. Apparently, he wasn't sleeping, as the pilot saw him stretch a bit and change positions in order to be completely in the light. The morning sun, still nice and warm and not yet burning as it would be in a few moments, was something to enjoy and the boy seemed to be rightly appreciative of it. Of course, if they usually lived in London (which Izzy had somehow gathered), that kid must rarely see light like that. Good for him that he did now, because he was as white as most English people are.

That kid was a funny one.

It wasn't that Izzy didn't like kids – he supposed that, if you looked really hard for it, you could find a use for them other than quickly becoming adults or something else he could deal with – but generally he liked them better away. That didn't include the countless children who were always hanging around the place; those were generally there to get a bit of money from the tourists, watch Dee set off or come back, and help if a hand was needed. Other kids, from 'normal' families, Izzy just didn't know what to do with them.

That Alex was something else – of course he would be, with a father like O'Connell and a mother like this spitfire of a woman. He had a smart mouth on him, probably a bit too much for his own good, and Izzy hadn't missed the way the boy had tinkered with his lock – either they did teach useful stuff at those posh schools, or he'd definitely had lessons from sticky-fingered members of his family. Izzy's money was on Carnahan. O'Connell probably had a qualm or two about teaching his kid something like that.

That Alex was something else wasn't surprising in itself. What was more surprising was that the kid didn't behave like kids his age were supposed to behave, according to Izzy's limited knowledge about the species. Even if he did pelt the pilot with endless questions about Dee, Egypt, what his dad was like when he was younger (Izzy so far had artfully avoided answering this particular subject, keenly aware that Mrs O'Connell generally seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere) and went just about anywhere on the dirigible when not watched, agile as an ape … Alex didn't whine, didn't make a fuss – much – over simple things like the not-so-great food or the lack of comfort, and he didn't get in the way. As far as Izzy was concerned, this was a first. He'd simply assumed 'normal' kids were a nuisance most of the time. But then again, that kid's pedigree alone spoke against the word 'normal'.

Izzy blinked and proceeded to yawn his head off big time. On one hand, those were the best hours of the day, with nobody around but him and Dee, and generally that was when he would mutter things to himself or to his dirigible without someone goggling at him like he belonged to a madhouse or something. On the other hand, those particular hours were the most difficult to stay awake through, without any sound, any sight or any movement – or conversation – to make steering eventful. It was so boring that a simple encounter with a flock of birds would almost make it into the log for the sheer lack of action.

When his jaw hinged itself back to its right place, he almost gave a start when he realised the kid was no longer in sight. Indulging in a two-second panic – two seconds being quite enough to imagine what would be left of him if something happened to the O'Connell kid – he looked around wildly, only to find a pair of round blue eyes staring up at him from below a blond fringe.

"Jeez, kid, no need to scare me like that," Izzy grumbled as Alex made his way into the cabin. The boy shrugged.

"I didn't know you were watching me."

"I don't like the thought of a payin' customer's kid going over the rail, is all. 'Specially _this_ kind of payin' customer." That said with a jerk of his head to the back of the cabin, where Mrs O'Connell still slept soundly.

Alex's grin shone as white as his father's. Maybe with a couple of milk teeth that still hung on.

"Think she's scary, huh?"

Izzy snorted, "You gonna tell me she's not?"

"She's my mum. _I_'m not supposed to be scared. Now you, well …"

"All right. I get it."

Izzy returned his attention to the desert in front of him. The shadows of the dunes were quickly shortening, their mellow golden colour turning to flat yellow, and what he could see of the sky from under the balloon deepened from pale blue to cobalt. He could even begin to feel the heat reflected from the rising sun by the sand below the dirigible. The day was truly beginning.

For the sake of his nervous system, he glanced around for the kid – but Alex had not moved from his spot a couple of steps behind Izzy. He was gazing at the sea of dunes, his eyes already reduced to slits by the sunlight pouring in through the window in front of them.

Remarkably looking like a much younger version of his father in the process.

O'Connell had not been the talkative type most of the time. There were times when he would just be so engrossed in whatever he was doing – even if he was doing nothing in particular at the moment – that it was useless trying to engage conversation with him. Which was a pity, because Izzy liked silence fine, but didn't care much for shared silence.

Izzy shook his head inwardly. Amazing how folks can change. There was a time when the words 'O'Connell' and 'married' could not even be conceived to belong in the same sentence – not by Izzy Buttons of the Magic Carpet Airways, anyway. He had known O'Connell from before his time in the Legion, and at that time he'd been rough, goofy, downright terrifying if he meant to and enjoying the simple pleasures of life, like a full meal once in a while, a night with a girl nice enough to lower her price on account of his good looks, or getting the upper hand in a bar brawl.

Not the kind of guy you picture married.

Then again, that was ages ago.

Izzy had had time, two years ago, to watch the interaction of the O'Connell couple from as safe a distance as possible, and he had found it rather interesting. In the end, it did not seem _that_ unbelievable that O'Connell could have fallen _that_ bad for the woman – and the opposite was just as true. The guy was rock-solid most of the time, and Izzy guessed that sort of thing was a winner with ladies. On the other hand, given the distance Mrs O'Connell was ready to go to get her husband (or her son, for that matter) out of trouble – and the means she proved capable of using – she was at least equally as stubborn, solid and determined as O'Connell. Those two deserved each other. They should probably have been living happily ever after in some manor in that famous sun-forsaken London, supporting, loving, kissing and fighting each other like any other happy couple would. Like a bloody fairy tale.

Well, they probably were, until some crackpot decided the end of the world was nigh and made an attempt to materialise his nice little project. That was about as much as Izzy had registered this time, not being included in the 'Let's save the world tonight' gang and being quite happy about it. All he had to do was provide transportation. Nobody's going to get shot this time.

Those two last bits Mrs O'Connell had firmly stated the morning they left Cairo, and the kid had nodded fervently. Which hadn't kept Izzy from muttering under his breath or mentally counting the times when O'Connell had said, just as earnestly, that he wasn't going to let his best pilot get shot. Of course, he always added that it was above all up to the pilot in question to cover his ass. Last time Izzy had heard that, he had taken it literally. It had resulted in a bullet hitting the fleshy part of his anatomy while trying to run for cover. Naturally, he still hadn't quite forgiven O'Connell for that. Hell, sometimes he had even wondered whether the bloody American kept him around to act more as a bullet repellent than as a pilot.

Izzy gave another yawn and automatically checked the slightly crumpled map beside the wheel, scratching his stiff neck. He glanced down at Alex, who was still looking around as though this was the first time he was seeing dunes. The pilot knew for a fact it wasn't. To tell the truth, he was a bit puzzled. This was the most silent the kid had been for the last three days. The absence of yet another question on how exactly he got Dee off the ground was a little unsettling.

"Bored yet?" he asked in a low voice, not particularly wanting to wake up the other passengers.

"Nope," the kid answered, still staring. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm used to – hey, I ain't bored, this is my job."

"You sure look like you are."

Izzy slipped a quick half-glare in the boy's general direction. "You got a smartass mouth on you, kid."

"Yeah." A grin. "I get that a lot. Guess it runs in the family."

"Which side?"

"Both. Mum often gets mad at Dad and Uncle Jon for that – I think she thinks they're a bad example."

"Figures."

Silence settled again, filled mainly by the flapping sound of the propellers at the stern. It was calm, and in a way, restful. But when Izzy took a second glance at the boy, he found him wearing a slightly different expression on his face. It looked more set, and a bit whiter.

Izzy was not an idiot. He had quickly worked out that the kid was thinking about his father and his uncle and that there was something he was supposed to say that should make him feel a bit better about that. Problem was, he had absolutely no clue of what it was he was supposed to say. Knowing you have to do something was one thing; deciding to actually do it was a camel of a different colour entirely.

"So," he began rather awkwardly, "can't wait to bring 'em back, right?"

Alex looked up and stared up at him for a full minute, his expression a blend of many different ones – some that Izzy didn't recognise. Then he began to snort helplessly.

"_That_ has got to be the lamest attempt at cheering someone up I've ever heard!" he said when he finally caught his breath, trying hard to keep it low and wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. Izzy shook his head, frankly disgusted. _If that's what you get for tryin' to help people …_

He was surprised to hear the boy say, "Thanks, though." And even more surprised when he saw that the trademark O'Connell grin had come back full-force. That's when the pilot noticed this grin was a bit crooked, giving the kid a subtly quizzical, mischievous look when he smiled.

_Well. So that's what you get for mixing up a dashing American adventurer and a prim English librarian. Hell of a result._

As Izzy watched him slyly from the corner of his eye, Alex's own eyes went very round and his mouth opened as though of its own accord just as he exclaimed, "What the hell is _that_?"

Startled, Izzy peered at the horizon and found what the kid was referring to – a slim column of thick, dark smoke drifting up from something large and black on the ground, like a stain. He frowned, wondering exactly why someone would set fire to something in the middle of the desert – and how. And not quite sure whether it was important enough to go down and start nosing around.

The answer to that came quite unexpectedly from behind, startling the two occupants of the cabin.

"Alex, language."

"Sorry, Mum," said the kid, not taking his eyes off the smoke. "D'you think it's got something to do with them?"

Evelyn O'Connell came to stand behind her son to peer through the window; she bent to get a better look, keeping a hand above her for support. Her hair was all mussed up and dusty, her clothes wrinkled and her face still betraying tell-tale signs of recent sleep.

She looked a far cry from the dazzling, dashing beauties Izzy saw once in a while in the moving pictures, yet suddenly it hit him in the face why O'Connell had held onto her and not let go in eleven years.

Couldn't explain, though.

"This spot is not part of any usual road," came a low-pitched, accented voice behind them, making Izzy jump and almost let go of the wheel. "It cannot be anything but them."

"Do you think – do you think there is somebody in that – in that wreck?" asked Mrs O'Connell, her voice shaking ever so slightly. The Medjai guy shook his head.

"No-one can tell for sure from up here. We'll have to go down and check."

Mrs O'Connell nodded, looking a bit pale. Izzy would have liked to have something clever to say that would cheer her up, but after his fiasco with the kid he preferred to tread this kind of ground with extra caution. Which for him meant going into full pilot mode and barking at everybody to strap themselves in, that he didn't want anyone to stupidly go over the bloody rail during a simple landing manoeuvre. And actually avoiding Mrs O'Connell's eyes when she told him to watch his mouth in front of her son.

He managed to catch the kid's glance, though, and he got a small smile from him in return. Tight-lipped, from a somewhat pale face, but a smile all the same. Kind of a 'You got away pretty easy' smile.

Definitely something else, that kid.

* * *

This journey was definitely becoming a bit repetitive. Of course there was something enchanting about the Egyptian desert – though they must have crossed the borders of Egypt at some point, because they could see the canyon-like bed of the Blue Nile in the distance to their right – especially in the early and late hours of the day … But they would soon reach the end of their third whole day of camel-back trekking and, frankly, as beautiful as the desert was, Jonathan would have liked it much better if he had watched it from the dirigible of that Izzy character's, with a cup of tea or – even better – a small glass of brandy. Also decent sandwiches, too. 

And, above all, with neither hair nor hide of a camel in sight.

Now that he had had three days to compare means of transportation, Jonathan found that he actually missed Izzy's old, patched contraption. Travelling on a dirigible was not unlike sailing, minus the swell. Sure, they'd had a few bumps along the ride – mainly due to their least favourite just-risen-from-the-dead mummy pal – but, all in all, it had been a fairly enjoyable ride. Putting aside any worried thoughts of Alex, of course.

Jonathan yawned and scratched his neck. Although the sun had begun sinking into the horizon, it was still beating down upon their heads like a hammer on twenty or so cloth-covered nails (not counting the camels). The heat on his head and neck had yet to abate despite the sort of scarf he wore on his head and the collar of his jacket that he had put up.

However, of all the little downsides of their current situation, it was not the camels, the sun, or even the icy glare of Hamilton he could almost feel on his back every now and then that really bothered Jonathan. No, what really irked him, what aggravated him to no end was that Rick, Tom and him hadn't really thought about what was in the truck before they set out to blow it up.

If they had, they probably would _not have left the rest of the _food_ in it!_

Jonathan felt a stupid idiot. The only thought that consoled him through the growls of his empty stomach was that the other two most likely felt like stupid idiots as well. Especially Tom, who was currently staring despondently at the head of his camel, as though imagining a dressing that could make it edible. Jonathan knew better than to tell him no dressing or cooking, as rich and tasty as it was, could ever make camel meat pass for food.

Then again …

Jonathan shook his head to break this dangerous train of thoughts, astounded and not a little disgusted that his own mouth had been watering at the mental picture of a camel roasting with aromatic herbs and stuff. As though reading his mind, his mount gave a twitch that almost jerked its unprepared rider off, and skidded to a halt.

"Oh, no you won't," Jonathan muttered, pulling the reins and trying to urge the beast forwards with his knees, "not this time." He could see the other riders overtake him, bobbing up and down with the tranquil pace of their camels, and Tom slowed down, giving him an inquiring look.

"Come _on_, you gormless useless blighter …"

He was still trying to make his camel at least budge when he came up with an idea. Leaning toward the camel's head, he grabbed one hairy ear – the animal gave a strangled roar of protest – and said in his coldest, most earnest voice, "Look here, you. I'm sick and tired of these capers of yours – now you're going to do exactly as I say, or else I consider you as my emergency food supply. And I'm _hungry_."

The camel batted the other ear and let out a whining sort of roar. Jonathan pulled a bit harder on the handful of ear. "I bet you taste horrible too, but I'm quite ready to overlook this detail – we _have_ been living off the stuff they called 'stew' for three days after all. Methinks the others are famished too, so you'd better get going again, now, don't you think?"

Either the camel understood the gist of its rider's words, or else it had grown tired of being pulled by the ear; anyway, it shook its head in a ruffled sort of way and started to walk again. Jonathan couldn't keep a wide grin off his face, and when Tom asked him the reason for such glee, he told him.

Tom let out one of his guffaws that made his shoulders shake.

"Why, you – that was downright nasty, you know!"

"Probably, but at least it's paying attention now."

Tom shot him a sideways glance. "I wouldn't even put it past you anyway. You certainly have a way with animals. Not sure exactly what kind of way, though – you always seem to be viewing them as hypothetical food."

"Not all of them," Jonathan protested, as Tom started grinning. "Come on, I'm not that bad – I'm a gentleman, not a bloody caveman, for cripes' sake." He paused for a second as a memory sneaked into his mind and looked back at Tom thoughtfully. "That ram did look tasty for a second though, after four days without food, didn't it?"

Tom snickered and shook his head. "Not after it beat the snot out of us it didn't. Who would have thought those girls kept a ram in their basement, anyway?"

"Didn't they mistake it for a sheep?"

Tom nodded, still grinning.

"Oh, you can grin all you want, but I wasn't the one who'd discovered such a _perfect_ way to sneak in."

A second or two passed, during which Tom's smile gradually faded, and Jonathan's eyes turned as though of their own accord to the yellowish horizon. As he stared at nothing in particular, a memory sneaked its way into his mind and made him give a somewhat wry smile. Tom's sandy eyebrows shot up. "What's that look for?"

"Oh, it's just that I promised Alex I'd tell him this one when he's a bit older." _This one and some others, too._ "Guess I'll have to wait till he's of age for that. Can't have his mother get my skin for a hearthrug, can I?"

"Jon, your skin would not be enough for a napkin, let alone a hearthrug."

"True enough."

There was a beat, which stretched into a moment. During this relatively short time Jonathan noticed a slight change in Tom – something funny settled on his face and he seemed to sag a little bit on his saddle. It was subtle, but it was so uncharacteristic of his old friend that he peered at the broad face, wondering what could have brought this sudden turn. He knew he wouldn't have to wait very long for some kind of explanation: the Liverpudlian had never been good at this game.

Then Tom gave a small shrug and answered the unspoken question. He said it quickly, but the words sounded as though they were being dragged out against his will.

"Assuming you _will_ be able to tell him someday. I mean, our outlook's glum enough. You know, world ending tonight and all that rot."

Jonathan was a little taken aback at that. It even made him a wee bit uncomfortable. Fact was, he didn't have a clue how to answer that one – Tom was usually the hopelessly optimistic one, finding silver linings everywhere. So this sudden gloom on his part was unsettling.

To be honest, Jonathan had had something of a funny feeling himself about the whole thing – maybe it was the result of being the 'rescued party', as Rick had put it, and being fairly short of friendly faces around – but it had barely been enough to make him more than occasionally slightly uncomfortable.

"Right," he ventured uncertainly, "and let's not forget that we burned the food. So now we've got not only Hamilton, his minions and a jackal-headed army from Hell trying to bring us down, but hunger as well." His attempt at a joke failed to have the expected effect as Tom gave the shadow of his ordinary bright grin and shrugged again. Jonathan was starting to worry a little bit.

Eventually Tom cast him a sideways glance and rolled his eyes. "I'm probably being an arse here," he muttered with the beginning of a smile, "but now _that_ is stupid. I mean, I know we're not going to die from a day of fasting –"

The fact that his stomach chose that very moment to let out a long, loud growl took a lot of weight off his words. It also took a lot of the heavy 'we're doomed' feeling off the atmosphere. Jonathan glanced at him quizzically.

"Besides," continued Tom in a would-be natural sort of voice, his ears suddenly even pinker than they already were after three days of camel-riding in the sun, "there's always your camel solution to consider."

The aforementioned camel gave a bleating, alarmed sort of roar and picked up pace. Jonathan beamed, quite delighted. "Do you know," he said thoughtfully, "I think this little idea of mine is not the worst I've ever had."

"C'mon, Jonathan," came a voice tinged with both American accent and smiling sarcasm, "you wouldn't have the heart to actually eat that faithful mount of yours, would you?"

"Not sure about the stomach, old boy, but I do heartily feel like roasting this thing and saving you a big chunk," Jonathan replied good-naturedly as Rick pulled on the reins of his camel to ride beside them. "What do you say to that?"

The American shook his head. "I say it won't be necessary. According to what a couple of agents were chatting about in the back, there's a reception party at Ahm Shere. So I guess we'll get some food when we get there, which should be …" He squinted up at the sun and seemed to think for a second. "…In a couple of hours."

"Bet you heard that as well," muttered Jonathan, rolling his eyes. Rick grinned his trademark four-hundred-teeth grin.

"Thanks for the offer, though. Too bad for you guys – I bet you've never tasted camel meat."

"And thank goodness for that. I'm sure the inside of this air-brained mountain of hair and flesh smell worse than it does on the outside."

Rick snorted and fell behind to refill his water skin – thankfully all the water cans had not been stored in the truck; there was a couple left on the car that brought up the rear. When he was gone, it was Tom's turn to look quizzically at Jonathan.

"Erm, about the schedule and us arriving in a couple of hours and stuff –"

"What?"

Tom jerked his head in Rick's general direction. "_He_ did the math. Hamilton asked him – on account of him knowing the desert and the way to Ahm Shere – and I heard the answer."

_Two hours …_ After three days of endless, repetitive desert trekking, the time limit suddenly looked much closer and coming faster than Jonathan would like. If Tom was right, and the pyramid was destroyed during the night, it meant that they probably would still be inside at the moment – that is, even if they could find a way to stop Hamilton's little project involving the Army of Anubis, the human race, and the total annihilation of the second by the first.

The funny feeling began to shape up.

Apparently, Tom had had the same line of thought, because his cheeks looked a little bit paler under his sunburn.

"What are the odds of the Medjai waltzing in to save the day?" he muttered, peering at the horizon as if waiting for black silhouettes on horses to materialise out of nowhere.

Jonathan winced. "Not so good."

Tom was silent for a full minute. But then he turned to his old friend with a small smile on his face.

"Then again, what were the odds of you surviving two encounters of the undead kind?"

That actually elicited a grin from Jonathan. If Tom Ferguson could still see the glass half-full, then things weren't completely hopeless yet. Besides, he did have a point.

"About as good as you surviving this one," he replied with a smirk.

Tom nodded, and stopped talking. That's when Jonathan noticed how silent the rest of the party was. The only human-made noise (or sort of) that they could hear was the motor of the car a few feet away behind them. And suddenly he found himself not so keen on chatting, either.

Nobody spoke during the next two hours or so.

* * *

Sunset was already well under way when the party reached their final destination. An enormous stretch of sky hung over the desert like a great big blue piece of canvas, and the last remnants of what had been a rich, golden light fell on every single face. Everybody seemed to be wearing the same tense expression, and Rick marvelled at the fact that, even though the mellow Egyptian sunset light almost always seemed to make everything appear softer than it actually was, everyone around him appeared nothing but grim and very much closed off. Ferguson kept his mouth clamped shut, and even Jonathan hadn't piped a single word in a couple of hours. He just sat a little stiffly on his saddle, staring down at the sand right in front of him and looking uncharacteristically subdued. 

Rick didn't feel afraid, properly speaking. He felt determined to do anything necessary to stop Hamilton – sick and angry at the prospect of yet another maniac hell bent on taking down a large part of humanity – wondering exactly what they were going to find down there, in that pyramid – truthfully, he did feel somewhat naked without at least his shotgun at his side – but not really _afraid_.

In fact, it reminded him very much of a few somewhat similar situations he'd gotten into in his days as a legionnaire, particularly the one that had ended his career in the French Foreign Legion – the Hamunaptra battle. That one had been bad – _bad_ – news since the very beginning. Rick had had a nagging doubt at the time – now, thinking back on it, the doubt had turned into a certainty – that the colonel in charge of their garrison had known that the Tuareg fiercely guarding the area outnumbered them by hundreds. Maybe the man had thought that his sneaking into the City of the Dead without orders, then around the place without a certainty or anything to guide him to the Ancient Egyptians' treasure and back out again would go undetected.

And maybe Rick would have had no problem with that, had Colonel St-Herblain decided to act on this on his own, without involving anyone else. But he had to talk the men into the plan. Many as a result had gone willing, lured by the promise of silver and gold and eternal glory. Quite a few had gone enthusiastically, the rest reluctantly, all ill-trained and ill-equipped for such an operation. Rick wondered how many had realised St-Herblain had merely used them as cannon fodder, and at what point. To this day, he still did not know whether a mutiny before they left their outpost would have saved lives. Some men were so intent on gold that it made it hard for them to see anything else.

The Tuareg had been watching them from an early stage, and once they had been sure the legionnaires had no place to run to, they had attacked. At the crack of dawn.

Rick remembered how St-Herblain, his face ashen, had told them that they had to fight for French honour and for – how'd he put it? – _panache_. That it was like the Alamo business, or something. Something to do for the country you fight for. Being a non-commissioned officer and having to obey his superior's orders, Rick had prepared his men without piping a word. But the part of him that was usually shrugging and rolling his eyes at stunts and speeches like that was now seething. Literally boiling with anger. Because you don't _do_ things like that when you're responsible for the lives of a hundred men. You don't go out on a wild goose chase when you don't know exactly whether you'll find what you are looking for, but know for a fact that odds are so _much_ against you.

Come to think of it, Hamilton and St-Herblain had a lot in common.

He hadn't blamed Beni for running off, really – rather, he had been furious at the little bastard for running off and closing the door in his face.

Rick supposed that, if he stopped being sarcastic about it for one second, he could consider himself a man of honour. At least, that was what Ardeth had once said, and though the American was loath to admit it, Ardeth was right about a number of things. But one thing he didn't consider 'honourable' was convincing a whole garrison to go in search of a hypothetical treasure in the middle of an unsafe desert, and when under attack, tell the men they had to go down fighting for their country, and that it was the best option. The only one, really, except run off.

Which every man should have done, but one. Carrying out an ill-conceived operation to try to take a position with no real strategic importance with such significant loss was inexcusable. The least you can do, after you mess up so bad, is to face the consequences of your actions – that as much was Rick's opinion. And St-Herblain had done just the contrary. He had scampered right off, and left his men to their fate – a fate that had been, at the moment, to be slaughtered one after the other.

Dying for one man's whim did not exactly fit Rick's idea of honour.

Fighting for the lives of millions did seem a little more like it. Theoretically, that's what you choose to be a soldier for.

But why the hell, he thought, swearing under his breath as he looked over at the centre of the camp, did it have to be him on the case _again_? After all, he'd been through with being a soldier for fourteen years now, and in the end that had been a pretty easy choice to make. No more being the one to clean up the mess somebody was making or had left behind.

_Yeah, right. As if._

Rick snorted quietly as he got down his camel and tied it up. The conclusion he'd just reached reminded him furiously of the pillow conversation he'd had with Evy the morning after the theft of the Diamond. He'd reproached her then with a tendency for wanting to fix any old sort of disorder, no matter who had created it in the first place. Evelyn O'Connell was like that – taking responsibility for every little thing so that the world could keep turning. It was one of the major – if not _the_ major – things Rick thought he could definitely do without most of the time. But it was also something that was a part of his wife's unyielding, indomitable, passionate character – and, as it was, he definitely couldn't do without this character to anchor him in reality.

That was why he had come so close to completely losing it as he had entered the pyramid last time to go after the bastards who had murdered his wife.

A camel nuzzled him none too gently from behind, jerking him out of his line of thinking, and he turned to see which one it was. Sure enough, Jonathan's 'faithful mount' stared at him glumly from under heavy eyelids and long camel's lashes. He almost appeared to be skulking.

"Odds are you're not gonna get eaten tonight, buddy," Rick said, checking that the rope was properly tied to its smallish post in the ground. "Relax."

He could have sworn there was something like relief in the way the beast shook his head and returned to staring placidly at the bustle in front of him. Rick's eyes followed. All he could see was a number of profiles in the same dark suit turned to something on his left that a tent hid from view.

When he walked around it, however, he could see properly. And what he saw there made him stare for a moment, his eyes narrowed.

Obviously, Hamilton's men had been there for a while – or else they worked damn fast. Their tents were bigger, more elaborate than the ones he had gotten used to in three nights; there was a buzz, a sense of urgency and efficiency that somehow reminded him of the army – and he didn't like that idea at all. It felt too well organised. But what was drawing his gaze most of all was the big hole in the middle, lit by several floodlights, where stood six or seven feet of big square yellowish stones set in a triangular shape, with an approximate-looking scorpion on the top that ought to have been supporting something …

They had dug up the top of the Pyramid of Ahm Shere.

He heard a low whistle behind him, and an equally low British-accented voice mutter, "Well, they certainly didn't do their job by half. That's motivation for you."

"These blokes probably haven't had anything else to do for the past months," said another voice behind Rick, "it's so easy to get bored when you can't pick up the wireless …"

The American turned to see Jonathan raise his eyebrows at Ferguson, who was making a rather successful attempt at a goofy grin despite the lack of colour in his cheeks. He felt the corners of his own mouth upturn slightly in spite of himself.

"So, Jon, is that where you took that diamond from?" asked Ferguson, taking a step closer to the pyramid and squinting at the skeletal sculpture of a scorpion on the top. Jonathan nodded dismally.

"Yes. Such a shame, really. I risked my _life_ to get the bloody thing off the ground, and now they're going to put it back." Then he bit his lip and shot a quick glance at Ferguson, who looked surprised.

"You risked your – how's that?"

"Didn't he tell you?" asked Rick, who, beside the fact that he was enjoying greatly the way Jonathan's ears were growing pinker by the second, actually welcomed the break in the general tension. "Izzy had showed up on his dirigible in the nick of time to pick us up from the pyramid – and he –" here he jerked a thumb in Jonathan's direction "– must have slipped or something, because he was dangling upside down from the dirigible. That's when he saw that diamond."

Something of a smirk was creeping into Ferguson's wide-eyed look. He stared incredulously at Jonathan.

"Don't tell me he – oh, c'mon Jon, even _you_ wouldn't be stupid enough to –" He let out a short bark of a laugh, and Jonathan threw him a dirty glare. Rick couldn't help but snort.

"Of course he did. Damn heavy thing, too, nearly pulled him down, and nearly pulled _me_ down when I grabbed him – I should've just let them both fall then and saved me a world of trouble."

He grinned brightly at his brother-in-law, who seemed to have momentarily misplaced his sense of humour and looked distinctly miffed. Ferguson gave a low chuckle.

"Never pictured you as the heroic type, Jon. You must've looked quite dashing there, hanging down head over heels like that."

"Oh, sod off, both of you," Jonathan muttered under his breath, looking quite determined to remain righteously annoyed despite the fact that a smile seemed to be pulling decidedly at his mouth.

Ferguson shrugged with a slight grin, then turned his back on what they could see of the pyramid. He started back toward the camp, stopping to call at Rick and Jonathan from over his shoulder, "I thought you were hungry – come on, it's now or never, Hamilton wants to open the pyramid when night has completely fallen. Don't know about you, but I'm not going in there on an empty stomach. Might be our last meal, too," Rick thought he heard him mumble in an undertone. He wondered at that as he watched the Liverpudlian stride away. The man hadn't struck him as the pessimistic type of guy so far.

Of course, odds were that he had simply never found himself in such a mess before.

He followed Ferguson at a distance, remembering Hamilton's snide remark about the 'company' he kept. Obviously his boss didn't consider hanging out with the prisoners an intelligent thing to do. His brother-in-law fell into step beside him, apparently not having caught Ferguson's little grim aside.

"He's right," Rick said with a quick look at Ferguson's retreating back, "let's get some food."

"See, now you're making _sense_," Jonathan agreed fervently, before adding edgeways in Rick's direction, "At last, we can eat something we haven't burned."

Rick shook his head. He couldn't believe it. "You're never gonna let me live that one down, are you?"

This time, it was with a grin that Jonathan answered him. "Never, my good son, I'm afraid."

Dinner was a quiet, tense business. It was also true that sitting on the sand eating lumpy stew while being closely watched with both unfriendly eyes and a few loaded, equally unfriendly-looking guns did not exactly encourage one to feel quite at ease. Rick downed his portion as fast as he could, and he could guess, from the way Jonathan almost choked on his stew, that he was not the only one who wanted to have the whole thing over and done with as quickly as possible.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Ferguson barely swallowing anything, despite his earlier remark about empty stomachs. The man looked slightly green around the edges. As for Hamilton, he sat neatly on a blanket on the sand, eating with as much refinement as though he was sharing a lamb and mint sauce with the latest King of England.

Ten minutes later, the sun had sunk entirely below the horizon, and everybody was gathered around the pyramid. Even though only the top part had been dug out, it still towered over their heads by a good six or seven feet. The light-coloured stones looked so tightly woven together that nobody could have dislodged one. But then, Rick had a hunch they might not need to.

Hamilton appeared, looking cleaner than ever – every other crony of his looking scruffy and dirty in comparison – holding the Diamond of Ahm Shere and began climbing the stones to the scorpion on the top in the centre of the floodlights. It struck Rick – who had not had a glance at it in two years – how big that diamond actually was, and what a miracle it was that nobody had attempted to steal it before for its sheer market value. To him, however, the elaborated, intricate layer of pearl and gold made it look ponderous and heavy rather than beautiful.

He noticed Jonathan's slightly slanted eyes go round as he squirmed on his spot. The American suppressed a sarcastic chuckle. If there had been the slightest chance that his brother-in-law could have leapt at the diamond, run with it under his arm and gotten away with it, he surely would have tried.

Unfortunately, there was no chance in hell.

More straight-backed and pompous than ever, Hamilton delicately put the diamond in the golden scorpion's pincers. Then he stepped back and all but dropped to the ground, thrown off balance by the sort of shudder that worked its way from the top to the very foundations of the structure. Rick could feel it go down the sand beneath his feet, and when it was over, something gave an ominous groan far below the ground.

The beat of his heart speeded up slightly. Suddenly he was aware how much the temperature had dropped in so little time.

While Hamilton climbed down the stones, his face showing nothing but excitement and expectation, Rick glanced sideways at Jonathan. He was still staring at the diamond, but the look on his face had changed – suddenly his features were frozen in anticipation and something like denial. As though the same phrase was going over and over in his head, like a broken record, as it was in Rick's mind – _don't open, don't open, don't open …_

There was a sort of snap, and a small cloud of dust sprang from between two large stones.

Hamilton made a sign. A couple of agents stepped in – they dislodged the dusty stones quite easily – and more men came to help them to put them on the ground.

There stood an entrance large and high enough for a man to walk in without even bending much. Being closest to the makeshift door, Rick, along with Hamilton, Jonathan, Ferguson and a couple of other agents, peered inside.

What he could make out when his eyes adjusted to the darkness sent a jolt to his stomach. "I have a bad feeling about this," he muttered without even realising it. Nobody seemed to hear him.

"Bloody hell!" said Ferguson weakly. Jonathan, his face white in the floodlights, didn't say anything.

Rick nodded grimly. "Hell's about right, yeah."

When the Pyramid of Ahm Shere had sunk into the sand, the oasis that had been made by Anubis to surround it had been sucked into the ground as well – and into the structure. Now, as they stared at the inside of what one of the entrances into the tall stone chambers had become, all they could see was dark green. The oasis had overrun the pyramid and cosily settled inside it. Leaves and lianas twisted their way around the pillars, across the floor, across the ceiling. They could even hear a faint gurgling noise from the bowels of the thing, as a tiny stream would drip from a higher point down into a pond. Aside from this sound, however, almost nothing else.

It was the jungle again.

* * *

Just one thing – the "the latest King of England" snide comment (from Rick's PoV) refers to the political changes in England over the year prior to this story: George the Fifth died in 1936, leaving the heir Edward the Eighth to ascend the throne; however Edward was only king for a few months before abdicating in favour of his brother who became George the Sixth (the father to the current Queen). Three Kings, two of whom new, in barely a year makes a funny situation and for some reason I can see Rick thinking of – if not actually making – this kind of comment. Plus I'm a sucker for History, and this makes me look good. I hope :D Just kidding. 

Well? What did you think:o

So, since FFnet has decided to stop "interaction" between authors and readers/reviewers, it seems we can't do shout-outs on story pages. Which means we can't answer anonymous reviews (why is that, by the way?). Well, I'm not much of a rebel, but I don't want to make discriminating choices between my reviewers. So here are the shout-outs and thank you(s) to people who've had the sheer _audacity_ of not registering/signing up :o)

**_Grumpy:_** First, let me say that I'm NOT at all offended by your nitpickings – perhaps a little bit annoyed at myself for letting some mistakes like "the contENTS" or such stuff. But that's it. Now, there are some things that you pointed out that are deliberate – at least they're not really mistakes. The "got/gotten" business for instance; it's just that, in most of British stuff I've read/watched/listened to, people say "got" in phrases like "I don't know where he's got to" where an American will say "gotten". Maybe you'll notice that, in Rick's POV, I use "gotten", not "got" – that's only my silly self trying to be literary and important by showing the POV with the descriptions, not only the dialogue. And I've heard/read British use "How come", so that's settled too. I take it you're American:o)

I came back and tweaked most of the urgent stuff you're pointing, like "it's all that is seems" instead of "it", but some I still need to think about, such as taking out or no the comma in "He didn't really feel like talking about that, for some reasons that he couldn't explain." because I really feel that the break is welcome in the middle of this sentence, both in terms of rhythm and meaning (gives a bit of weight). I don't know. But "your not going off to some Godforsaken pyramid" definitely stays this way. "Going" here is a noun, and "your" the pronoun that goes with it (not very up with English grammar-ish vocab, sorry :S), like "due to their both being Medjai" – which, interestingly enough, was my first choice before my first beta-reader corrected me and changed "their" to "them". If anything, this shows that sometimes there might be more than one solution. And my sentences are waaaay too long :D

Thanks for the nitpicks and the comments, and feel free to drop either any time! Only, now that the mods have gone into "no interaction" mode, I can't send any answer back to you if you don't register/login, so… I'm a right coward, don't want any unnecessary fuss from the mods, but… well. Mind, I'll carry this on until they find a way to answer even the anonymous reviews, so that's it.

**_Adele:_** I'll do my best, but I post the chapters as they go, which is pretty slowly due to a lot of real-life related stuff that can really get you down sometimes. Yes, Rick really does love Evy – for better and worse, but we've already seen proof of this :o) I just follow the line of the films in this, putting little personal touches here and there – nothing that affects characterisation, I hope.

To those who were signed up, I know I've already said that, but thanks again for your comments! And to those who didn't review – hope you're enjoying it so far :o)

Cheers!

Bel :o)


	16. Underture

**Author's notes****:** Merry Christmas and a happy new year! I can't believe I last updated this story 2 years ago (and a few months). In the meantime, I finished my thesis (hurray!), got a job (in a primary school), got depressed about it, got angry, got better. Anyway, I said I'd be back, and there you go – I'm back :) 16 pages for the 16th chapter, with a title – again! – courtesy of a song of the Who (the _Tommy_ album – again!). I had the most fun I could with introspective stuff in this chapter, because the next ones are going to be more action-oriented, and I don't know if I'll be able to do that while retaining what little rhythm and pace I can write :)

_Disclaimer: I don't think I own much in this chapter – except the Medjai Elders, Tom, Hamilton and a little (cannon fodder) number of agents :D Other than that I'm just borrowing Mr Sommers' characters. Just borrowing, mind you, not Borrowing Granny Weatherwax's style, for those who like me love the Discworld series :)_

**FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM**

_**Chapter 16: Underture**_

To say Evelyn O'Connell felt a little out of place would have been an understatement, albeit a small one.

Truth was, she had helped Izzy land his dirigible in the middle of the Medjai camp, downed her supper without really stopping to appreciate the taste or even acknowledge what it was she was eating, and now she was left to her own devices while everyone got ready. This was a situation she was not at all accustomed to. She was an Egyptologist, a scientist of ancient history, a problem-solver. And right now, she did not know exactly where she should be and what she should – or even could – do. She hated not knowing this.

The sun was setting down on Egypt in the truly spectacular way that was unique to the place. There was something both sharp and mellow to the light, the way it appeared to envelop everything in bright gold like gift wrap around a Christmas present. Of course, the fact that this particular present included gleaming scimitars and machine guns made the whole thing feel a little bit bizarre.

Nobody made any remark of any kind about the rich light, even though there was definite possibility that at least some of the Medjai in the camp would not live to see the sun come up again if Hamilton was even partly successful. Everyone was walking among or in and out of the tents, looking determined and purposeful.

This especially made Evelyn O'Connell feel out of place.

There was also the fact that, ever since sunrise, she had been unable to get rid of a lingering sense of anticipation, like a growing amount of lead that was slowly but surely settling into the pit of her stomach. She wondered whether this was anything like the 'weird feeling' Rick claimed to have whenever she was about to read books she shouldn't read or open chests she shouldn't open. If it was, then she made a mental note to listen to him a little bit more in the future. This kind of feeling certainly was difficult to ignore.

Maybe the sight – the sheer stench, rather – of the still glowing remnants of the truck they had found had brought this anxiety. It had been such a relief to hear Ardeth say that, in all probability, nobody had been inside when it blew up. Evy was not at all squeamish when she was around thousand-years-old mummified corpses, but when it came down to facing the possible loss of one or both of the men she loved most in her life, and in such horrific circumstances … Well, suffice it to say that for a closer look she had waited until Ardeth was absolutely positive that there was no gory remains to stare her in the face and impress upon her how spectacularly she had failed. If he was aware of her repugnance and the reason behind it, he tactfully avoided to mention it.

As for why that truck had blown up, there were only three possibilities that held water: either the Chamber of Horus – as Sheikh al-Simbel had said the name of the organisation Thomas Ferguson worked for was – had set fire to their own truck, and that was illogic; or else Rick and Jonathan were the ones who somehow managed to blow it up, and that was probable; or else it had been an accident, which was not impossible (since nobody had been in it the truck must have been stationary, thus not creating any spark) but improbable.

Whatever had happened, Charles Hamilton and his men had waltzed off, taking the two prisoners with them.

Needless to say, Alex had waited for his mother and Ardeth with barely concealed agitation. He was almost stamping his foot with impatience when they had got back on the dirigible. And had let out a suppressed but still perfectly audible '_Whew!_' when Evelyn had told him that there had been no victims in the explosion.

They had reached the Medjai camp by sunset.

Evy had not quite expected this. She had thought they were going to an appointed place where the leaders of the Twelve Tribes Ardeth had told her about could join them – a sort of war camp with a few tents and some poles to tie the camels to.

She frankly had not expected the womenfolk to be there.

Not that she was surprised by this – not really. The Medjai, while being mostly a warrior people, were a society where the position of man and woman was not about superiority or inferiority. Rather, they went through life having different tasks (the men were taught in the arts of war, the women generally took care of the breeding of camels and whatever farming there was to do) but came together when it came to raising children and making important decisions for the future of the tribe.

About half of the Elders were women. This had surprised Evy at first. After all, in England women only obtained the right to vote about ten years ago – why, they still didn't have it in France, their nearest neighbour.

But war was one of the few preserves of the men, and tradition was very strong among the Medjai. So she wondered at their presence in a camp that was consequently much larger than she had expected. She had even spotted a few children playing hide-and-seek among the tents.

Alex had gone off exploring after she had made him swear that he would not get into anyone's way or start any mischief. She knew her son to be perfectly well-behaved around even relative strangers when he had a mind to, but she also was very much aware that, when nervous, he had something of a propensity to trigger catastrophes without the slightest malicious intent.

Which had amused Rick to no end when Evy first pointed it out innocently. Of course, he had teased her mercilessly about this, pretending to wonder 'whom he had gotten it from'. She had huffed, pointedly ignoring the memory of the mighty shambles their eight-year-old son had single-handedly caused at the temple where they had found the Bracelet of Anubis.

Of course, Jonathan had roared with laughter when Rick had told him about the whole pillar business. And, considering the way Alex had so quickly lost all remorse and had kept grinning at her afterwards, there was absolutely no doubt that his uncle had been sharing with him a story or two about Evelyn's frequent little bouts of clumsiness during her time as the librarian at the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities.

And she would willingly have bet her beloved small stone painting of the queen Hatshepsut that stood on her bedside table that at least one of the stories Jonathan had told his nephew was about her accidentally knocking all the bookshelves down. Honestly, those three …

The reality of the situation came back to her with such force it felt like being splashed in the face with icy water. She had to get them back. She just _had_ to. There was no possible alternative.

Evy started when a hand was laid gently on her shoulder and relaxed when she saw whose hand it was.

"We are ready to begin the meeting," Ardeth said, his tone serious but friendly. She nodded and stood up, dusting herself off and smoothing her creased clothes as best as she could. Although a few of the people she was about to meet knew her already, she thought it best to try to make a good impression – and, truth to be told, she did feel a little nervous. After all, it was up to the Council of Elders to decide what the Medjai's course of action was going to be in the next hours … It was very considerate of Ardeth, really, to fetch her himself while as the High Commander he could – and even maybe should – have sent someone to do it.

She followed him into a large tent in the middle of the camp – after having checked on Alex, who was currently engaged in lively discussion with a slightly older boy whom Evelyn knew to be one of Ardeth's nephews. The conversation was backed by a good deal of gestures, for neither really mastered the other's language. This did not seem to deter them, Evy noticed amusedly, and it was on this slightly cheerful note that she stepped into the tent after Ardeth, who courteously drew back the canvas to let her pass.

The inside of the tent was well enough lit, the colours rich, and comfortable-looking cushions strewn in a circle. The entire Council was seated there, and all members looked up when Ardeth and Evelyn entered. She bowed respectfully, and many gave her an answering bow of their head in acknowledgement.

"Sit down, Evelyn O'Connell," said the oldest Elder – Fatheya, a deceptively frail-looking old woman sitting in front of the entrance. "We were just about to start."

Evy sat down on unoccupied cushions beside Ardeth, who cast a last sweeping glance at the people in the tent before joining her.

"First of all," he said, "let me remind all of you –" here he looked at everyone in turn, but Evelyn had the fleeting impression that he lingered half a second's time on her in particular "– that everything you have to say will be taken in consideration. Just remember that time is of the essence and we should make the most of the moments we have left. Elder Atef, I believe you have a suggestion."

Elder Atef's face was sharp, his eyes beady, and when he spoke there was a controlled sort of urgency in his voice. "Indeed I do. Commander, I know that the attack two days ago failed, and I believe I understand the reasons of this failure. But couldn't we organise another, maybe subtler attack, that would strike down their leader, thus cancelling the entire operation?"

Evelyn listened with rapt attention, and found herself rather in agreement with him. Anything that could stop the search party from entering the Pyramid sounded good in her book, especially since it was only a matter of hours before the complete and utter destruction of Ahm Shere.

But Ardeth shook his head.

"I have sent scouts ahead for the past two days, with instructions to look for such a possibility. Unfortunately, Hamilton is now constantly keeping men close enough to him to block out any form of attack from afar. To get to him would mean first getting through them, and we've already tried just that."

There was a silence, during which Evelyn thought about the Medjai's last attempt to 'get to' Hamilton. Ardeth had parted very reluctantly with enough bits of information for her to put together the jigsaw of that night. The skirmish had abruptly ended when Rick – always one to grab an opportunity when he saw it, he'd been right in the middle of the fray – had not seen Hamilton coming from behind and bringing a gun down on the side of his head. The Englishman had cocked his gun and stared at Ardeth, fully aware of who he was, what he was, and ready to gamble everything on the basis that the Medjai would not risk getting O'Connell killed.

And that gamble had proved successful. Evelyn wondered what had been Ardeth's thoughts after this – and she wondered about the Elders and the Commanders, as well. Because she had known, without a doubt, that Ardeth was the kind of man to lay down his life for the people he considered friends – and that thought very much humbled her. But what really shook her was the knowledge that he was also willing to risk the success of a mission and the responsibilities he had as the High Commander of the Medjai for the life of one of them.

That fact, when you knew Ardeth Bay as Evelyn knew him, was earth-shattering. Apparently his credibility and authority hadn't seemed to weaken since that night, but she kept a close watch on the interactions between Elders and Commander all the same.

The turn had come for Yasmina, one of the youngest Elders – she barely looked fifty or fifty-five – to speak out her point.

"Yet there is surely something we can do – we must. As we speak Hamilton is entering Ahm Shere with his men, and within hours, he will have raised the Army of Anubis – isn't there anything the Medjai can do bar standing tall against the jackals from the ancient hells?"

Yasmina was one of the Elders that Evelyn knew best. Despite being comparatively young, she often used a very elaborate phrasing that would in all likelihood not fail to make Rick – and probably Jonathan – snicker on the sly. However, behind this peculiar phrasing was a question bordering on insolence: in short, were the Medjai only good for battling against Anubis' Army and useless for any other, more elaborate, plan?

A whisper ran through the tent, but Ardeth raised his hands immediately. A hush fell, although there was some mild glares thrown in Yasmina's direction.

"Please, Elders, now is not the time for sterile arguing. Elder Yasmina, is there some action in particular you would suggest we take?"

"Indeed, Commander. One of our topmost priorities should be to send a party to overpower the men Hamilton might have left outside the pyramid to guard their camp. It would give us a mighty advantage should they come out again."

'_Should they come out again_' … Evelyn couldn't repress a shudder. She was fully aware that this was the rational, reasonable thing to do – considering every alternative – but for once she absolutely refused to think in the rational, reasonable way. There was only one alternative to consider seriously, and this was Rick and Jonathan both coming out of the pyramid alive. Unscathed as well would be absolutely splendid.

This made Evelyn shake her head at herself. Maybe not thinking in that blasted rational, reasonable way was a mistake on her part.

Thing was, try as she may to forcibly contemplate the grimmer alternative for logic's sake, it failed every time.

Ardeth nodded, and Evelyn wrenched her mind back to the situation at hand.

"This is a very sound proposition indeed, Elder Yasmina. I suggest Maher and the Fourth Tribe for this mission – they are especially trained in stealth combat. Given the number of men Hamilton has placed there, Maher's men should overpower them without unnecessary bloodshed."

This everybody seemed to approve of, and if the way the Elders began shifting in their seats and gathering their things was anything to judge by, the meeting was nearly over. But Ardeth raised a hand, and everything stilled.

"Evelyn, I hope you are aware that you are absolutely free to make a suggestion. Is there anything you wish to say?"

Evy bit her lip, then cleared her throat. She didn't think she would sound entirely convincing if the first sound that came out of her mouth was a strangled squeak.

"Yes, there is," she said with all the calm and composure she could muster. "Commander, I know that the men you will send to Hamilton's camp are skilled fighters, and I am perfectly aware that the Medjai cannot be beaten on the battlefield –" Here she stopped for a second, because for all the respect she had for the Elders, she did not appreciate the two or three definite sniggers she guessed rather than heard. She let her face naturally assume the scolding, stern expression she often wore when Alex (or Jonathan, for that matter) clearly was not listening to a lecture.

There was something of an awkward pause. Evelyn did not dare look at Ardeth, who if she knew him at all probably had an amused smile dancing in his eyes.

"– _But_ if we want Hamilton's plan to fail, we should not be fighting only his men and the Army of Anubis – if he does manage to raise it." She took a deep breath. "We need someone to go down into the Pyramid of Ahm Shere as well and try to stop _him_."

The whispers that filled the tent made the stir caused by Yasmina's earlier remark sound like a mere ripple. Before Ardeth could react, Elder Selim, a very fat man with hard features stared at Evelyn full in the face and spoke to her. Both were unusual for him.

"And I suppose you would be the one to do it? What on earth could make you believe that the Medjai would not be fit for this kind of mission? I know what you have in mind – you would take the glory for yourself and let the Medjai be slaughtered, when it is your kind who have brought danger back to the desert with the Diamond of Ahm Shere!"

This caused a uproar. Most of the Elders sprang, shuffled or waddled to their feet and hurled expletives at Selim, who stuck out his several chins mulishly, his cold eyes fixed on Evelyn.

She felt every muscle in her body tense, but held out his stare silently. She sometimes had to deal with minds like that. Men and women who thought that if you belonged to a certain group, you had better keep your mouth shut and your head down. Usually, as far as Evelyn was concerned, it was young people and women. Especially if, as was her case, you had the bad taste of having an Egyptian mother. She had caught several 'that jumped-up little upstart' (and this was one of the nicer nicknames some had for her) before she decided that crying herself to sleep every night probably would not help matters.

But being called 'your kind' is never a pleasant experience. Whatever the 'kind' part refers to. Someone insulting her English side was by all means just as upsetting as someone insulting her Egyptian side, even if it was rarer.

The heated exchanges settled down to a tense hush when Ardeth finally silenced the tent, his eyes blazing.

"That is quite enough! Elder Selim, I will not have Medjai Elders disrespecting a guest, particularly as honoured and loved a guest as Evelyn O'Connell. Besides, she and hers bear absolutely no responsibility in what is happening."

"Yet you cannot deny that the Diamond of Ahm Shere would not have been stolen if it hadn't been for those dirty foreigners!" the old man snapped, still glaring at Evelyn.

"Selim, you are acting just as some of the Englishmen you hate so much," came the placid voice of Fatheya, the oldest Elder. "You know, those who cannot – and will not – be bothered to distinguish one Arab from another." She leaned towards him, exhaling smoke from the narghile as she said with the shadow of a very wrinkled smile, "In other words, you are an idiot."

Elder Selim stiffened, but remained silent. Fatheya turned her startlingly green eyes on Evelyn, who gave a strained nod in acknowledgement. "Thank you," she mouthed rather than said.

Then she straightened up, her head still held high. "Glory, you said?" she asked, and although she seemed to speak at the entire Council she could see a few heads turn inconspicuously toward Elder Selim. "I feel I cannot express upon you how much I don't care for glory. If anyone here has doubts about my loyalties, they should do well to remember that Hamilton is keeping my husband and my brother hostage and will not hesitate to kill them if he feels it necessary."

She was proud that she managed to keep her voice from shaking – except for the word 'kill', on which she couldn't help but trip. All eyes were on her. She turned to Ardeth.

Of course, she knew how she could plead her case. She could appeal to his feelings, say that she should be the one to enter the pyramid because it was nobody else's husband and brother down there … But she'd feel like betraying herself. Evelyn O'Connell did _not_appeal to anyone's feelings to obtain something. She did so by being the right person for the job.

So she bored into the jet-black eyes and said levelly, "I am the only person in this tent who has been inside the Pyramid of Ahm Shere. Nobody else would know what to expect or where to go."

Ardeth looked at her intently, and gave a serious nod.

"Has anyone got something else to say?" he asked in a loud voice, even though the tent was really not that big. Nobody moved a muscle and jaws remained shut.

"All right. Then we are sending the Fourth Tribe to cover the ground around the Pyramid of Ahm Shere, I will lead the rest of the men nearby for the eventuality of a return of the Army of Anubis, and Evelyn will go inside for a direct stealth attack on Hamilton. Council dismissed."

He bowed where he stood and left the tent. Evelyn followed him.

The change in temperature was already clearly noticeable as night had fallen while they were talking. Fires had been lit throughout the camp to light the way, and every square inch of it was buzzing with an anticipation such as Evelyn had seldom felt before. She had been quite young when the World War had started, but there was something in the air that reminded her in a very striking way of that summer when she turned thirteen.

As if what she was about to do, the choices she would have to make – everything could become a possibility to change History still about to unfold. But at the same time, she felt that her and her actions were something insignificant, something trivial that was about to be ground by History in motion. The great big void that swallowed people, and spit out the names, as her father would say when he was feeling depressed (generally about the lack of knowledge about Ancient Egypt).

_That's why we do what we do. So History remembers us as people, not names and dates._

_But it's only people who properly remember people_, had once pointed out a seven-year old Evelyn.

People.

Her father had laughed, closed the book he had been reading and ruffled her hair. Then he had changed the subject.

Evelyn shook her head, allowing some of the tension that had been piling up for the last few hours to lift suddenly as she smiled a little.

_I'm doing this for Rick and Jonathan and Alex,_ she thought, _and this is well enough for me._

_History can have the rest.

* * *

_

Tom had never set foot in a jungle before, but he had read books about it. Most authors, he suspected, bragged and boasted and were a little bit untruthful about the reality of a suchlike situation. He had figured early on that, if there was really any truth in those pages, there would hardly be any tigers left in India, for one thing.

However, there were a few points all authors concurred in – the stifling heat, made all the worse by the heavy dampness of the air, the impression that the very oxygen was getting rarer as you trudged on through the leaves … But the thing everyone seemed to agree on was the ever-present sensation of being watched. Your every move, every word, every breath … Every little thing you did seemed to be under careful, constant surveillance.

It was very unnerving.

And Tom clearly wasn't the only one to feel that way, although the others' reactions were all different. Most agents huddled together, clutching their weapons and throwing nervous glances over their shoulders from time to time. Some tried to look relaxed, and failed.

The most interesting to watch was O'Connell. Tom could vaguely recall Jon telling him at one point that the American used to be in the Foreign Legion many years ago, but now it was obvious in his stance, his walk, the way his eyes scanned every dark corner before taking a step … He didn't look all nervous and scared like so many agents did – well, truthfully, kind of like Tom himself felt – but rather wary and aware of his surroundings. There was something relaxed and calm (surely falsely so) as well. It seemed to stem directly from instinct, and was probably helped by the fact that, unlike everybody else (except Jon) he had actually already been in that pyramid – and got out alive. Even though the inside of it did not match Jon's description at all.

The atmosphere was damp, dark and thick. They literally had to hack their way through the enormous leaves and lianas – they were _everywhere_, creeping up the walls, intertwined around the columns, forming a thick, mostly dark green cocoon all around them. The condensation sometimes made water – or so Tom hoped, at least – droplets fall from the ceiling, wherever and whatever the ceiling was. It also made people jump out of their skin every time some tepid liquid dripped on their heads or shoulders, which made Tom wish very hard everybody would just take their fingers off the trigger of their guns before something horrible, definitive and entirely non-supernatural happened.

At times they could make out in the light of the electric torches the sudden glint of gold through the foliage, or the hint of another, bigger room beyond the green wall; but they passed it silently, without stopping. There was barely any conversation between the men apart from a few whispers.

They all followed Hamilton, who followed O'Connell. And what O'Connell himself was following – his memory or his imagination – was anyone's guess.

Tom couldn't help but jump a little when he heard a mutter from somewhere to his immediate right, "Place has changed a bit, hasn't it?"

Peering through the occasional holes in darkness created by the electric torches, he could make out Jon's face, his eyes resolutely staring in front of him at the black hole that was going to be their path in seconds. Even with the lack of light he could see that the usually slightly slanted eyes had gone a bit rounder, and his jaw was clenched a bit tight.

"I guess," he replied uncertainly, falling into step with him. "First-timer, remember? This looks more like the jungle around the pyramid you told me about. With the – dead soldiers and stuff."

"Yeah … Well. Did I tell you about other … stuff?"

"What? The blokes in red who wanted to grab the Bracelet of Anubis and kill your nephew?"

" N – no … The _other_ other stuff. That could still be around. The – the pygmy mummies."

"_What?!_ "

Tom stared and almost stopped in his tracks. Jon looked dead serious.

"You _are_ pulling my leg, right?"

"Ha. I wish. Bloody rotten little bastards."

"What are they?"

"Guardians of the jungle of some sort. They jump on you with no warning, with blowpipes and the sharpest, nastiest little knives – I even saw one spear some chap."

"Blimey! What with?"

"A spear, I think."

"Oh."

"Right."

Tom threw a somewhat nervous glance at the in-wall forest around them. Suddenly it seemed to rustle with malevolent life and odd noises. He was suddenly aware that his already shaking hands were getting clammy on top of it. "So … How d'you kill them?"

Jon jerked his head toward Tom's gun that he kept swung over his shoulder.

"Blowing them up with dynamite rather does the trick. Oh, and a shotgun too, according to Rick. They don't seem to come back from that."

"Anything else?"

"Well, the Book of the Dead seemed to make them back away, but other than that …"

Tom shook his head with a grim smile he was pretty sure no-one could see.

"You wouldn't happen to know where it landed, now, would you? After all, you were one of the very last people to use – to – know where it was."

He caught Jon's quizzical look when his face caught the light of the torch the agent behind him – Collins, a hefty fellow with a bushy beard and a thorough mind – was waving. His friend hadn't talked in length about his first interview with Hamilton, but he had been clear about some specific things he had voluntarily left out.

Even though Tom wasn't sure he entirely believed that particular part of the story – the 'resurrection' part – he was not going to argue about keeping things from Hamilton. Not after he'd watched and listened to his own boss talking about killing thousands of people and asserting, in horrible calm honesty, that it was for the greater good.

Tom reflected that, somehow, having doubts about Evelyn O'Connell coming back from a deadly knife wound while not having problems with accepting a three-thousand-years-dead mummy being raised from the dead was a little bit inconsistent of him. Maybe it was because he had seen Mrs O'Connell. The fact that this lively, smiling, essentially _alive_ woman had actually been dead, even for a few minutes, was hard to process.

And this no matter what Jon said. It was a gut thing.

The Southerner shook his head wryly.

"To tell the truth – I completely forgot about it once we got Evy back. I suppose it stayed where it was, wherever Alex left it."

"You didn't come by it on your way out? Because I thought, you know, someone could have picked it up then. After all, it _is_ priceless. One of the most famous books in history – at least Egyptian history."

Jon actually stopped in his tracks and stared at him with an odd look on his face. Then he shook his head and walked on with a shrug.

"I don't know. I mean, I don't know whether we even would have picked it up on our way out. It got pretty wild down here, we just wanted to get the hell out. Besides, that book is bad news, my friend."

"Thought you and your nephew resurrected your sister with it."

"That's beside the point. Of course I'm glad Evy didn't … Bloody hell, 'glad' doesn't even begin to cover it. But that book also brought old Imhotep back. Twice. Granted, the second time we didn't get the whole locusts, bugs and boils and sores business, but …"

Jon's voice trailed off, and Tom nodded. His point was a bit unclear, but the Liverpudlian reckoned he got it.

Still … It _was_ a shame.

_But life is full of contradictions and lost opportunities, isn't it?_

Lost in his musings, Tom didn't see that the party had stopped until he almost bumped into Agent Cameron's back. Being much taller than him, he stared over his head at what had brought this sudden stop.

The two agents watching O'Connell (and protecting Hamilton, no doubt) had hacked a fork in the road clear of branches, and everyone was now peering through the darkness at the double path.

"Well?" Tom heard Hamilton mutter impatiently – maybe the atmosphere was finally getting on his boss' cold steel nerves. His voice came as a mere whisper. "Which way?"

"I don't know what you've been told about our last happy little trip to this place," O'Connell deadpanned, "but when I waltzed in I wasn't particularly thinking of lining the path with white pebbles. Plus I didn't come in that way."

"I realise you came from the very base – and possibly another side – of the pyramid. But do you have any idea as to the path we should take right now?"

In the crossed light of the electric torches the little of O'Connell's face Tom could see looked grim and set.

"Yeah, we should turn around and get the hell out of here before we're all dead."

Tom could suddenly sense tension rise further among the agents around him. The American's voice had been low, but firm and utterly devoid of any irony or jokey element. He was simply stating a fact.

There was no doubt that he had been aware of voicing some of the silent anxiety that had gripped most of the men since they had set foot in that pyramid. Granted, Tom hadn't known O'Connell for that long a time, but it was obvious that the guy was anything but dumb. The Englishman could easily assess the cleverness of the seemingly casual remark.

Whispers ran all through the back of the group, and they were gradually travelling up to the front, one agent at a time. And even if O'Connell hadn't actually heard what they were about, he was smart enough to pick up on the atmosphere and expand on the doubts that appeared to be growing.

Of course, those doubts didn't fit Hamilton's plans at all. Tom caught his boss glancing briefly in Bane's direction, and the agent pushed back the lapel of his jacket, leaving a little of the butt of his gun exposed. He heard Jon gulp in the dark near him.

"Unfortunately for you," he growled, white teeth gleaming in the erratic light, "that has never been an option. What there always has been, however, is the possibility that I might grow bored of your deplorable lack of manners. So either you help us onwards, or I may just ask Agent Bane here to –"

Tom felt someone brush past him and realised with a start that Jon had pushed his way to the front of the group. He stopped and just stood there, his hands in his pockets in what probably was a would-be casual fashion.

"You've got to go right," he said, his voice not so steady but standing his ground. Both Hamilton and O'Connell turned to him, both faces displaying various levels of surprise.

"How do you know that, pray tell?" Hamilton asked, not bothering to keep the disdain from his tone. It dripped like melting water from an icicle. Jon shrugged, apparently undeterred.

"I've been inside that bloody pyramid too, if you've not forgotten. And it so happens we – I – this is the way we came in from. I mean, I recognise this corridor. I reckon that if you cut away the greenery on this wall here there'd be hieroglyphics that mean 'This way to the Scorpion King'."

The boss made a sign, and his two bodyguards raised their machetes and hacked at the vegetation covering the wall in front of them. When they had uncovered a few symbols, Hamilton turned back to Jon with something new on his face. Tom decided he didn't like at all the way his grey eyes started to gleam.

"Well – we may finally have found a use for you, Mister 'In The Wrong Place At The Wrong Time'. I can't deny I'm somewhat surprised."

"You'd be even more surprised at the things I picked up," Jon retorted with what he probably thought was a sly grin – actually, it came off more as a grim sort of wince. Tom had known that one for a very long time. It never fooled him, even back then.

Hamilton eyed him for a couple of seconds, then moved onwards, turning right; everybody followed, O'Connell muttering "Hey, quit that" when Cameron poked him in the small of the back with his gun. To Tom's surprise, the operative looked almost apologetic when he hastily put the gun away – and, thankfully, took his finger off the trigger.

"So," Tom heard O'Connell whisper to Jon, who looked slightly green – unless it was a trick of the light, or lack thereof. "When'd you get the time to brush up on your Ancient Egyptian reading skills?"

"I was gonna ask the same question," Tom piped in, highly curious. "Does it really say 'That way to the –'"

" I didn't, and yes," Jon answered in a low, still slightly shaky voice, glancing uneasily at Cameron and Stubb who were walking nearby, watching the three of them. "But I didn't translate that. Alex did – that time. The three of us walked past it, on our way to … You know."

"Yeah," O'Connell said, his low baritone a bit rough round the edges.

"The 'three' of – oh. Right." Tom felt a bit stupid about realising this late. He cleared his throat and asked, a tiny bit awkwardly, "Well, is there anything you remember that might come in handy? Can you still read hieroglyphics?"

" Not as much," Jon replied with a shrug, then added fervently, "But I'll _never_ forget that bloody Ahmenophus stork thing now. I'm likely to remember that one my entire life."

"Why? What does it mean?"

Jon stood still for a second, then he stared at O'Connell and Tom, who stared back, puzzled. Then something passed into his eyes, and his face relaxed.

"Do you know," he said, with a shake of his head and a small but genuine smile this time, "I really haven't got a clue."

A low chuckle escaped O'Connell's lips, and Tom let out something halfway between a sigh and a small, shaky laugh. Somehow there was something that he was missing here, clearly, but it didn't matter right now. Not really. Not when a tiny fraction of the cold, gripping anticipation that had been clutching at his gut ever since they entered the pyramid had been lifted, even for a second. He tugged at the straps of his rucksack and fell into step with the two brothers-in-law just as O'Connell asked, his voice almost normal, "You don't give a damn about the meaning of that symbol really, right?

"How did you know?"

* * *

"Look, lady, I'm not so sure about this."

"And you choose this precise moment to inform me?"

Not letting go of Dee's wheel, Izzy turned his head toward Mrs O'Connell, a bit puzzled at the quiet laugh behind the seemingly biting remark. He had been expecting irony – or worse, sarcasm. But there was the hint of a smile on her lips.

"So … Remind me again. We are goin' under to – to do what, exactly? Apart from probably gettin' shot, I mean."

She threw him a pointed look, but didn't pick on the remark. Instead, she put down the whetstone and the great big sword that the Medjai chief guy had given her and explained with a slow, deliberate voice.

"We are going down into the pyramid to stop a man named Charles Hamilton from summoning the Army of Anubis, because if he is successful in that, he will destroy the world."

"Right. Okay. I still don't get it."

He caught her disbelieving stare for a second, then her face slackened a little bit and she rolled her eyes. "Honestly, this is not so hard to process, you just –"

"No, no – I get the 'The Earth is doomed and someone's got to save the world' part. But I still don't understand why _we_ gotta do the saving. I mean, it's not like it's your fault or something, right?"

She didn't answer that right away and her gaze wandered off a bit to his left, and he wondered whether he'd blurted out exactly the wrong thing. Wouldn't be the first time.

"It isn't, right?"

Well, he'd heard stories. People talked, on long journeys. Most customers found the silence of the open desert sky so daunting and empty they quickly got the urge to fill it with words. And sometimes Izzy listened.

If half the stories featuring Evelyn Carnahan O'Connell were true, the woman had – granted, with some help – had a hand in raising each and every single mummy buried in Egypt.

This was probably a cartload of bull, but after the nasty business with the wall of water and the desert swallowing that pyramid two years ago, Izzy felt more inclined to give some of those stories far more credit than he used to.

Mrs O'Connell suddenly looked back at him and stated, rather intently, "_No_. I mean no, it's not," she corrected, more gently. "It's just that we're the only people who stand any chance of success. And we need to do it quickly, because it all comes down to the new moon setting. _Tonight_."

Izzy did not ask why they 'stood the only chance of success', because her earnestness and seriousness was so much more disturbing than O'Connell's laid-back 'mummies, pygmies, really big bugs' attitude. It meant that it was real, and that it was far from over. And the worse thing was, he was actually expected to take a part in the 'saving the world' party – whatever the result of _that_ turned out to be.

And he'd always thought himself a sidelines kind of guy, too. Ever since O'Connell had buggered off to the French Foreign Legion, that is. The odds of getting shot in the arse were much lower if you stood on the sidelines.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, going back to scrutinising the landscape, "no wonder you people never stop to look at the scenery."

In the silence that followed his words – Mrs O'Connell spared a brief, tense smile and returned to her whetstone and her sword – a tiny sound reached Izzy's ears. It would have gone completely unnoticed in the middle of the conversation between him and his passenger, but as it was, he could not ignore it. Blocking the wheel with the autopilot – really a simple jamming device – he tip-toed towards the sound as silently as he could, followed by Mrs O'Connell's curious gaze.

He did have a hunch about what – or who – could have made this sound. He was just wildly hoping to be wrong.

But sure enough, when he plunged his hand into one of the empty crates usually filled with supplies, his fingers caught something wriggly, warm and sprouting remarkably colourful language as he hauled it out into the night air.

Young Master Alex O'Connell's blue eyes, looking unnervingly like his father's, shot him a full glare that his blond fringe quite failed to soften.

Izzy let go of him before the collar of the jacket he was holding on to ripped for good. In a flash, the boy went from red-faced anger and shame at having been caught to dutifully wincing when he saw his mother advance on him. She did look quite formidable – much more so than a petite, slim librarian had any right to be, in any case.

"Oh, brother," Alex mumbled, his cheeks rapidly losing colour. In spite of his annoyance at finding a stowaway – not to mention the identity and especially pedigree of said stowaway – Izzy couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid.

"Mum, wait – I can explain everything."

_This should be _ really_ interesting, then.

* * *

_

Jonathan was starting to hate pyramids with a passion.

His reasons for doing so seemed perfectly sound to him, too. For starters, pyramids were the place you buried dead people. Long-dead people. People who had been dead for millennia, and who, when they had been alive, had made arrangements for a peaceful, _undisturbed_ afterlife.

As the Pharaohs were for the most part fantabulously rich, they had no problem getting the best architects to design the most perfectly lethal booby traps to ward off intruders. Knowing this early on had somewhat quelled his enthusiasm for digging and archaeological venture.

Not that he really agreed with angry people who claimed that digging out ancient artefacts and putting them on display for the world to see was grave-robbing and sacrilege, but … Pyramids _were_ graves, after all. And Jonathan had never really been too fond of cemeteries in the first place.

But what he was now loathing with all his heart, what really riled him to no end were bloody pyramids filled with bloody jungle swarming with bloody creepy little pygmy mummies!

Keeping his mouth shut tightly against the slight terror-induced nausea, he walked with his eyes and ears wide open, peering and listening intently for any sign of the eerie hush that had suddenly fallen just before the nasty little buggers had attacked two years ago. It had seemed, then, that the only sound for a couple of miles around had been his own blood thumping in his eardrums and Evy's deep breathing.

It had been comparatively easy – shockingly so, come to think of it – to stand on that ridge with Evy, telling himself over and over that if they didn't shoot these men in red, Alex and Rick and Ardeth didn't stand a chance down there. It had been a sickening, bloody and oddly exhausting business – not to mention the nightmares after that, both those where he missed and those where he hit the target – but he had not really felt himself part of the big action then.

This time, he'd been shoved unwilling in the middle of the fray, seemingly without any other purpose than just because he happened to be there, surrounded – with two noteworthy exceptions – by people who would kill him just as dead as he'd killed those men two years ago if he tried to escape.

Which would be a bloody stupid thing to do anyway, considering the lurking pygmy mummies that vied for everyone's blood, his and theirs.

Equal shares of danger for all. Hurray for equality.

Except it wasn't really equality, now, was it? Rick and he were now in the exact same position as Hafez's nutters had been at the jungle of Ahm Shere – hunted down and potentially shot at from two different parties at once. Not that he truly felt sorry for the buggers (not after they kidnapped Alex and threatened to cut his arm off to get the Bracelet), but suddenly finding himself in the same situation actually had something laughable about it.

_Oh, the irony,_ Jonathan thought sarcastically. _Yeah, right._

He kept chewing on his grim thoughts as he walked, and since Hamilton wanted to keep an eye on him after his little remark earlier about the path to the Scorpion King, the company was not helping any. The only difference it made was that instead of having complete and utter darkness engulf everything behind him with each step that he made, he had complete and utter darkness ripping open before him, as though reluctantly.

So it came as great relief when Rick quickened his own step and muttered right behind him, making him jump a little, "Recognise the place?"

Jonathan peered at the little he could see of the space around them with narrowed eyes.

"Well … Can't really say I do, old boy. Must've hurried past and not stopped to enjoy the view. Why?"

" Because I think we're getting close. See that gold … ish thing on your left?"

"That pointy thing that sticks out from behind the big ferns?" They probably were anything but ferns, but Jonathan couldn't for the life of him tell what kind of greenery the big dark leaves were supposed to be. Risking a glance behind him after making sure Hamilton wasn't looking, he saw Rick staring at him quizzically.

" Yeah … I guess. Well, that's where that nutcase Hafez stuck the bracelet. There's a statue somewhere that sucked his hand right off."

Jonathan winced. "Guess I won't be sticking my hand anywhere around there, then."

For some reason, Rick's four-hundred-tooth grin took on a sinister gleam in the torches' lights.

"Might be a good idea."

His round blue eyes hardened a great deal the second after that, and Jonathan looked around to see what had brought this sudden change. He was met with Agent Bane's equally cold and steely glare, and for a moment there he felt like having stepped into a war-time no man's land and into the middle of a crossfire.

After a few seconds of silent glowering, he cleared his throat and asked awkwardly, in the most normal voice he could muster in the circumstances, "Say, how come everybody got a bag and we didn't? Planning to do some archaeologing on the side, are you?"

Bane's cold eyes shifted their aim from Rick to him, and Jonathan had a fleeting, but haunting feeling of what butterflies pinned in those display boxes experienced. He gulped nervously.

Incidentally noticing that he seemed to be doing that a lot these days.

But Bane's expression turned into one of grim amusement as he gestured at his own backpack.

"Well, our thinking was, you probably won't make it out of this place alive, so what would be the use of giving you a bag? It's all first-aid kits and ammunition and other stuff you won't need anyway."

Jonathan knew he ought to have been more afraid of Bane's answer – it sounded more like a promise than like a remote possibility. But he just couldn't push the pygmy mummies out of his mind. And his memories of them, though blurred (mostly with running like mad) and, truthfully, rather brief, were so much scarier than the seemingly more direct threat of Bane and his bunch.

He made a mental note to ask Tom what was in his backpack. It hadn't looked like there had been much in the way of equipment.

As for Rick – well, threats of all kinds must have got so old by now that he just raised an eyebrow at the bloke, who-rang-your-bell style. Then his toothy grin came back and he walked past the agent with a shrug.

"I wouldn't _think_ of depriving you of your first-aid kit, you probably _will_ need it more than us," he drawled, throwing a derisive look over his shoulder at Bane. "By the way, how's your eye?"

Bane stiffened and mechanically raised a hand to his two-days-old bruise, in which the angry red and purple was beginning to fade into yellow at the edges. It was not without a certain amount of satisfaction that Jonathan remembered having made this particular impression to the agent's face. The small victory over him in the scuffle two days ago was worth any amount of glaring he'd been subjected to since Monday.

And there _had_ been a certain amount.

A sharp intake of breath made him turn his attention back to the front of the group, a few feet away. Hamilton and his two bodyguards had stopped on the first step of an enormous stairway and were pointing their torches down in the room they'd just entered.

This chamber was _big_. Even with the greenery that was invading everything, gripping the columns, covering the statues and crawling up the walls, you could feel the weight of thousands of years coming down on you like the Egyptian sun on your head in the heat of the afternoon.

It wasn't just about the weight of the years, too. The entire room gave off an impression of malevolent watchfulness. It might have been just another demonstration of the theory that states that, the bigger the room is, the lower you talk, but there was something creepy in the air that you couldn't help but taste, something damp, heavy and … dark. Brownish, maybe. Something that didn't bode well at all, anyway.

As he walked carefully down the slippery steps, Jonathan noticed that his knees were having a heated debate about starting to seriously shake or not. He could hardly blame them, having just recognised the place as the chamber where he'd seen Ankh-su-namun peering into a corridor, as though waiting, before she turned those cold black eyes on him and stared him up and down. As though he was something small, useless and utterly out of place in the general order of things. When he had cleared his throat and raised his fists – feeling remarkably foolish in the process – the look in her eyes had changed, and in there he could now read, "Oh, does it want to play? Does it do tricks?"

Never, in his entire life, had he felt so much like a mouse stuck in a room with a cat in a playful mood. Not only had this situation made cold sweat run down his neck and his back – he'd just witnessed the woman murder Evy, after all, up front and all close and personal – but it had been thoroughly humiliating, too. Jonathan was fully aware he didn't exactly have a lot going on for him in terms of chest-beating, swinging-from-lianas manliness, but he still did have his pride, and this (being thrown and beaten around by a woman who must weigh half as much as he did) still stung. Super-badass-concubine fighter from Ancient Egypt – as Alex had once put it – or not.

The whole group stopped at the foot of the stairway, circling something on the floor, and Jonathan tried to peek through the mass of dark suits to get a look. When he finally sneaked a glance, he spotted Hamilton being helped into a set of large robes with a lot of gold stuff on them that the Englishman judged too gaudy for genuine credibility. Especially when it looked so much like a fancy bathrobe minus the belt.

"Gentlemen," Hamilton said, shaking the long sleeves to make the hem fall on his wrists, "this is the end of our journey. Here lies –" here he paused for effect, gesturing at the ground with the cloth of his sleeves giving an appropriate wave, "the Seal of Anubis."

The few agents who were standing too close to it took a hasty step back.

Oddly enough, there was not a single root or leaf on that seal. The big scorpion figure was clearly visible, the different shades of gold gleaming more or less brightly where the light of a torch touched them. The total absence of dark green was unsettling. It also made it crystal-clear that this was what they had came for. The ominous, heavy feeling hanging in the room seemed to emanate from this very point.

Anyone could sense that this seal meant _business_.

And Hamilton, without any other form of ceremony, cool as anything, came to stand right on top of it.

Instinctively Jonathan tried to take a step back, but froze at the sudden touch of cold metal against his neck. From the rustle behind him, though, it appeared that he was not the only one with survival instincts. There was a collective intake of breath and a fifty man gasp –

And nothing happened.

The collective breath was released and the tense quality of the atmosphere seemed to dwindle. All considered, the whole business felt like something of a let-down. Somewhat anti-climatic.

But Jonathan had learned not to trust seemingly all-clear situations. He still had the soot behind the ears to prove it.

Most agents seemed to welcome the lull, and they all gave a sudden start when Hamilton turned a strangely meaningful look at Bane and said, "Carry on my orders, ag–"

He never finished the word. Under his feet the seal started to shake and gave off a shudder that gradually reached the walls and the entire pyramid. Golden light so bright those too close to it had to shield their eyes seeped – not unlike some sort of thick sticky syrup – from the gold parts of the seal and _into_ Hamilton, who had gone stock-still, his eyes lost in the distance and his mouth slightly open.

He looked like any unfortunate bloke who had just walked rather violently into a wall, except for the very disturbing detail of thick yellow light pouring straight ahead from his eyes, his mouth and his nostrils. Then his feet left the ground.

It felt like watching a string puppet show done by someone who had only heard the theory of it. Hamilton's dark grey shoes floated aimlessly four or five inches off the ground, his head lolled at a weird angle on his neck, one shoulder was slumped when the other one remained rigid …

"Here we go again," Jonathan heard Rick mutter. The words fell in a stunned, shocked silence. Only Bane seemed to know exactly what was going on, and he seemed very pleased by the turn of events so far.

Hamilton's body – obviously his mind was busy somewhere else, possibly a few planets away – began to drift off toward the passageway to another chamber, his feet still dangling a little off the floor. The leaves and lianas shuffled aside gently (as though self-consciously) where he went.

The small crowd of agents followed Bane, who walked leisurely behind Hamilton, looking calm and poised and as gleeful as if Christmas had come early. Not so with Jonathan' and Rick's escorts, who hung their heads low and shuffled silently, occasionally treading on each other's feet. Once in a while they would glance grimly at the fantastic sight of their boss being dragged on as though by some sort of string.

_The supernatural does take some getting used to, gentlemen_, Jonathan thought with an inner sarcastic grin which slipped abruptly when he bumped into a taller agent's back. The agent gave a start and whirled around, his hand – and his gun – jerking nervously. Jonathan took a hurried step back, startled, only to knock another agent to a halt. His gun was out in a flash, too.

"Now, now – gents – no need to resort to extremes," Jonathan stammered, instinctively raising his hands. As the two men let out a trembling breath he made a show of straightening the creases in his jacket and added in a slightly steadier tone, "You know, you'd really better put that gun of yours away before one of you does something I'll regret very much."

"What?" the taller agent barked while the other shook his head and put his gun back into his holster. "Shoot one of our own?"

"No, I meant me."

The agent snickered, but Jonathan did notice with great relief that he kept his finger off the trigger now.

When he tried to peek around the dark suits to get a glance at why they had all stopped, he was unceremoniously shoved in front, where Rick already was, standing beside Tom with his blue eyes fixed on something ahead of him. Hamilton's body had had drifted to a halt.

His eyes still wide open and his mouth agape, his head still rolling on his neck like a hapless puppet's, he went near the wall as though attracted by a giant magnet like in the cartoons from the moving pictures Alex loved. He stayed there, as though tied to a post, under a heavily-decorated gong of massive proportions that hung from the wall, too high for anyone normal to bang.

A sort of spasm ran through his whole body – even his fingertips jerked. Then he went completely still.

A shadow swept over the large chamber, and it felt hot and cold at the same time, and empty. Empty_ing_, rather. Jonathan felt a mad urge to dig his fingernails into his palms just to be able to _feel_ something. That had happened before – only, last time, he'd thought the reason for that was the body of his dead sister lying in his arms. To say it had been unsettling would stretch the limits of even the most open-minded judge on English understatement.

Like last time, it lasted only a few seconds before everything went back to normal in a flash.

Except that the Army of Anubis had just been raised again.

Jonathan let out a raspy breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. It fought briefly with what felt like his heart hammering inside his throat to get out.

Then Bane turned to him and Rick a look that made something churn in the region of his stomach. It wasn't the passing glare or occasional sneer Jonathan had got used to in the past few days. It was a straight, direct stare. The kind that made you wish you were being ignored.

"Kill them."

_Oh, bugger.

* * *

_

Indeed :D

Now, I promise I'll try not to let two years go by without an update, but I honestly don't know when I'll post the 17th chapter. I've begun to write it though, and it looks like a monster in the making if you take into account everything that has to happen there :)

Okay, now for the review responses – as usual I've answered the signed reviews with the lovely little button, but since for the 'anonymous' ones I don't have a button I'll still post the replies here. That's right, Powers That Be Of Fanfiction Dot Net: I am a Frenchwoman, hear me roar. Or at least purr :P

_**Amy**_: Thanks for such a detailed comment!! I tried to tread very carefully the slipping slope of character development, because while I tend to be put off by a story where characters seem to change overnight, I don't find it believable either when huge things happen to them and they remain unfazed. It's fanfiction after all; we want to read about characters we know and love, but if they are unrecognisable the fun just isn't there. So I hope I pulled off a slight change :)

The changes in viewpoints were very important because I didn't want some characters to hog the stage – plus it's fun to see the world through others' eyes :) And I got to play with the English language. Being a foreigner meaning you can make digs at both the American and British sides, so I take advantage of that as often as I can! Thanks again :o)

_**Lucky Fannah**_: Thank you, dear, but I do hope you'll enjoy the action when it comes :) On the subject of Rick and Jon – it's difficult to write them acting "as brothers" meaning "caring and love" because… well, they're men, and they're men of their times. They just don't show they care for each other with soulful dialogue and hugs. I, too, believe the two brothers-in-law have come to mutual appreciation over the years, but I see them showing their care in an unconscious way, by simply being there, by bickering, wincing behind Evy's back at something she said, but I can't see them getting emotional without experiencing acute, ear-burning embarrassment and much shuffling of the feet. They do probably care for each other like brothers, and maybe eighty percent of brotherly love is bickering and talking about trivial things and getting angry when you get a scare.

All this to say I can't really write only caring and love – they're behind the put-downs and arguments, really :)

_**LilyAyl**_: Well, the way I see it, if the reader took some time to review and leave a nice word (or not so nice, as constructive criticism is always appreciated) it'd be downright rude not to reply. So there you are. And I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter, too :)

_**Adele**_: How about going into the pyramid even if it's the dumbest thing to do at this point? :D Hope this cliffhanger worked as well as the previous one did!

To all the readers – I really do hope you enjoyed this bit, because it can mean I'm not losing whatever touch I had. Stay in touch for the next part, even if it's long in coming… Please?

:o)


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